


Infamous

by madluvs



Series: Infamy Trilogy [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, Mixed inspiration across all media
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Budding Love, Dark Comedy, Descent into Madness, Developing Relationship, Episode: Mad Love, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Jealousy, Love/Hate, Multi, Psychopaths In Love, Retelling, Revenge, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension, Slow Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2018-11-07 21:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 69,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madluvs/pseuds/madluvs
Summary: Harleen Quinzel is a stage actress and rising star in Gotham City, seeking glory, fortune and fame. Instead, she draws attention from someone she hadn’t bargained for -- none other than the notorious Joker himself! Having accidentally stolen the spotlight from the Clown Prince of Crime, revenge transforms into an unlikely romance in this Mad Love retelling with lights, cameras and action!





	1. REHEARSAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the world's a stage, and all the men and women simply players.

A small and pleasant smile upon a small and pleasant face beamed up at Joker in black and white brilliance. Bedazzling the inky front page of the Gotham Gazette were two big bright eyes, a bob of blonde, pale skin spattered with freckles – _or was that his coffee?_

**GOTHAM’S OWN RISING STAR: HARLEEN QUINZEL**

A tidy font beneath the photo, pulled so taut it was near enough to tearing. His jaw tightened and Joker swallowed _hard_ on the jealousy that writhed deep within the pit of his stomach, and with white-knuckled force, he slammed the paper down upon the bar, rattling the glasses, and rattling his men.

“What. Is. _THIS?!_ ”

Apparently the citizens of Gotham had _exceedingly_ short memories – since it had been _just yesterday_ Joker had had Batman speeding down the narrow roads at the docklands, in chase of some serious cash Joker had rinsed from the bank only twenty minutes prior. He’d had seven police vehicles on the go, sirens blaring, one bulking batmobile – and one _Bat_. He’d lost three of his own men in arrests, shot two officers, and had escaped only narrowly himself. And _yet_ – he’d flipped back to front, front to back, of the newspaper more than once and not a mention in sight of his showmanship.

“What’s _what_ , boss?”

Joker almost broke his own finger forcing it into the face of this _rising star._   _HA!_  “This,” he seethed. Again, hammering his finger into the paper with some ferociousness, his eyes narrowed at the five bewildered faces blinking back at him through the dusty dark.

“Oh, there’s a new show comin’ to town, some musical they been promotin’ it all month!”

Joker had admittedly forgotten the name of the man speaking. A nameless goon, far too animated and excitable in his gestures for Joker’s liking during this moment of crisis–

“My gal’s been _naggin’_ me to get tickets for _ages_ … but since we’re still waiting to be paid and all–”

There was a pause, a cough. Joker stared, expressionless as he tried to quell his internal rage.

“You wanna see it, J? Tomorrow night is opening night!”

“Of _course_ I don’t want to _fucking see it_!”

They each flinched at him, and at the spittle that flew from Joker’s mouth in fury. He compulsively fisted the front cover until he tore through the face of this doe-eyed dunce, Harleen Quinzel.

“Where is  _my mention_?!” Joker seethed.

There was a sudden murmur of understanding amongst the men before him, a few subtle glances exchanged, and a chorus of praise and encouragement promptly proceeded on cue. 

“They only care ‘cause it’s new boss–” piped up one, waggling a fifth scotch and lacking conviction.

“The robbery probably features first on the website… _probably_ , I can get it up on my phone if you wanna–” another rummaged through his loose jeans in order to find it.

“Maybe they storin’ up your stories for _one big scoop_ –” _Not how a newspaper works –_ where the fuck did he find these guys?

“They’ll have forgotten _all_ about it in a week, you’ll see, boss, you’ll see–”

“They just ain’t fully comprehendin’ the poetry in the work you put out, boss.” 

The ink had blackened Joker’s knuckles, and Gotham’s newest doll-faced, dull distraction grinned up at him from the bar, smug and taunting. The only remnant of the image left. Eyeless, _faceless,_ it lacked the previous sweetness and warmth, the photo no more now than a smudgy ruined grimace. A temporary diversion, satiating a famously fickle audience. So they’d chosen _this_ , over their clown prince? _So be it._ Joker’s teeth squeaked as they ground together, and he lingered in thought.

“When _is_ opening night, did you say?” He asked quietly, amongst their continuous supportive chatter.

“Tomorrow night, boss! It’s got some glowin’ reviews so all they’ve been sayin’–”

Joker’s steely expression cut their enthusiasm _dead_. “I’ll need a car, two men, _nice suit–_  do you _really_ need to be writin’ that down?!” His hands flitted idly to his temples in agitation, though they were twitching to be around somebody’s _neck_. All in due time.

“Get it done,” he snarled, tossing the paper and scattering his lackeys from their drinking booth. “And get those tickets boys – we’re seein’ that show!” 

 

 ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

  
  
“Alright, take a break!–”

Harleen breathed a heavy sigh of relief, centre stage and skin glistening under the furious spotlights. Her arms outstretched and aching as she held the freeze-frame concluding their final dance number. The cast surrounding her began to break out from the tableau and down towards the stands, reaching out for bottles of water and a seeking a moment of rest. Panting, Harleen dropped her jazz hands, about to follow suit –

“Not _you_ , Quinzel, you stay right there.”

Harleen’s breath hitched in her chest, and she squinted out towards the empty seats of the theatre. A curious stillness fell upon the cast and crew at the sharp tone of the director, and though she couldn’t see their expressions through the brightness, could feel all their eager eyes upon her. It wasn’t with the _glowing admiration_ she had always imagined it would be.

“Yes?”

Harleen teetered on stumbling upright. She was _drained_ , anxious. They had been rehearsing their numbers non-stop for weeks. She had been dancing, tapping and singing herself to exhaustion in order to beat the competition at every turn.

“Your footwork, once again, was too clumsy and too slow,” piped the choreographer from somewhere beyond the white glow of the stage lights. “Riley, get up there, and from the top, please.”

Harleen’s heart sank, and her signature jovial expression dropped along with it. She stood, highlighted in her embarrassment, as Peyton Riley made her way up the steps to join her.

Peyton Riley wasn’t all that dissimilar to Harleen, except in all the ways considered _important_. She was flawless, beautiful, living out of her daddy’s fat wallet, and pursuing her hobby in a casual and careless manner. It didn’t seem to matter anymore that Harleen had endured nights of repetitive, boring fucking from the director, under the assumption this had solidified her status within their artistic company. It didn’t matter that Harleen had approached her interview, broke but determined, willing to do _anything_ to claim the illustrious main part. It didn’t matter because Riley was always just a single misstep behind her, as Harleen’s understudy, her replica with _many_ improvements.

Harleen forced a wide smile, struggling to block out the avalanche of disappointment and humiliation. It was opening night tomorrow night, and Riley was at her heels, Harleen’s shadow after a spotlight of it’s own. _Over my dead body._ And she stood to watch Peyton take _her_ stage, tap _her_ number with an effortlessly grace.

“Beautiful, Riley, thank you.”

Her cheeks burned with anger – but Harleen’s smile remained steadfast all the while.

“We need to see a lot more of _that_ tomorrow night Quinzel, if you _really_ want to make it _big_ in this city,” though she couldn’t see the director’s face, Harleen could hear the entertainment in his voice, and the wave of awkward chuckling that followed through the ensemble.

“Of course,” Harleen responded, as lightly as she could though her veins were fire and her mouth dry. “That really was somethin’ Riley,” she offered a tiny, rather manic applause. “Bravo.”

Riley gave a brief and casual “thanks–” before heading back out towards the crew in the auditorium, and Harleen watched with loathing as Riley perched herself close the director, much closer than was necessary. It wasn’t due to the lights, that Riley was _glowing._

“Tomorrow night is _the night_ ladies and gentleman, get as much rest as you can, and I’ll see you all at ten for full dress rehearsal. Thank you very much, and goodnight.”

And Harleen watched, stunned, as Peyton got ready to leave, chatting with merriment alongside with the director and senior crew.

Harleen stormed backstage and threw herself into the dressing room, shunting all of her pearls, jewellery and make-up onto the floor. Despite every attempt not to, a small and ugly cry escaped. And she screamed at her reflection beyond the orange-white bulbs.

“ _FUCK!_ ”

She tore at her glittering costume and heard a seam, somewhere, tearing. But Harleen no longer _cared_. She scrubbed with anger at her face, until her cheeks and lips were sore from it. And cried loudly, with frustration at her other self inside the mirror. She was a sad and sorry state to behold. _I’ll show them. I’ll show them **all** what Harleen Quinzel can **do.**_ And with that, she grabbed for her things with a _new sense_ of purpose, left through the back entrance and out into the cold night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a practice piece to get me back into writing -- a rewrite of something teenage me had mulled on for a long time. But this has turned into somethin' of a labour of love. For those of you reading this first chapter, and starting this journey -- those of you having left kudos and reviews, thank you -- I hope to keep you entertained in the chapters to come. Please feel free to let me know what you love, and also what you don't. This is all practice, but mostly for enjoyment, and I hope that you do indeed enjoy it too. I hope to hear from you readers throughout this crazy and chaotic journey -- much love, L x
> 
> You can also find me lurking over on tumblr, for those of you who have them. Please feel free to come and say hey! (madluv.tumblr.com)*
> 
> *some nsfw content


	2. DRESSED TO KILL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A three-man-band with a plan.

Joker was emptying and applying the very last of a tan foundation as they pulled up towards their chosen destination of the evening. _The theatre._ Caking it on until the alabaster white of his skin was no longer visible, Joker refused to leave the car until satisfied with the visage in front of him. “I look _fuckin’ ridiculous_ ,” he hissed, flipping the sun visor mirror, thoroughly unhappy with his _common_ , far too _regular Joe_ , disguise. His features, though still prominently angular, were plain, boring – even _ugly_ – without the stark white, black eyes and vivid reds. “I can’t go in like _this_ –”

“I think ya’ look pretty handsome if ya’ ask me, boss,” spoke Eric (previously: nameless goon) who smiled at Joker warmly from behind the wheel.

“Shut _up_.”

Ugh! He was in far too good a mood. Ever since Joker had handed both him and his other lackey, Claus, a ticket to this damned production, Eric had been nothing but full of enthusiasm and gratitude. Joker wasn’t feeling it, not even at all. Claus and Eric were lucky that they didn’t need stupid disguises like this one, since they were already stupid. Already ugly, and to top it all off, _complete nobodies_.

He rummaged around in the glove compartment to find the final piece of his costume. To hide the last semblance of his identity with a thick, black wig, which Joker adjusted carefully, tucking back every  strand of vibrant green with careful consideration. He checked himself over one last time, before exiting the car and slamming the door in a fit. They hadn’t even got inside the venue, and yet his blood was already boiling.

All three men got out of the car, wearing matching black suits, expensive, but altogether unassuming. Tonight was opening night, and as much as Joker liked to make a statement, he needed to take the subtle approach in order to reach that _grand finale._

“I look ready for an open casket not a night on the town,” Joker snapped. And with his plain suit and thick layer of make-up, he wasn’t entirely wrong about that.

“Ya’ know what they say J, you put the fun inta’ tha funeral.”

Old joke. _Bad joke._

“Remind me, why did I bring you again?” _Because I regret it._

“Cause a’ this–”

Eric waddled around to the back end of the car (an expensive ride, but also boring and unassuming) opening the trunk to unveil three assorted leather cases, each shaped to hold a different musical instrument. Claus’ a large double-bass, Eric’s a clarinet, and finally a violin case for Joker which disguised, as much as he himself was, a prepped and loaded Thompson machine gun.

At last, Joker cracked a smile.

“That’s more like it!“ Joker squeezed their shoulders as they crowded around their toys, each in turn taking their instrument of choice. “We’ll be making music tonight boys.”

The hulking men either side of Joker chuckled, well prepared for a night of lights, cameras, most certainly, action. With their cases in tow, a spring in their step, Joker and his two acquaintances made their way towards the stage entrance, avoiding the eager, queuing public.

A bald, thoroughly disgruntled doorman, raised a brow at the three of them as they approached. Two tired eyes flitted to the cases in their hands, to their outfits, to settle on Joker’s heavily applied _face_. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sure you can,” Joker exclaimed, tapping on his “violin” and smiling widely. “We’re part of the band and we’re running _pretty late_.”

“Sure you are. Show me your passes.”

“Passes?” – Eric went to reach for his ticket from the inner pocket of his jacket – _IDIOT!_ – but Joker was faster and elbowed him hard in the ribs, taking the wind right out of him.

“I must've left them back at the hotel, silly me,” Joker feigned a loud and aggravated laugh above the coughing and spluttering of his lackey.

“No pass, no entry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous – we’ve gotta show to play! What will they do without us?”

The guard extended a finger and with each word, prodded at Joker’s chest roughly. “No. Pass. No. Entry.”

Claus was upon the doorman in a blink. For a giant, muscular specimen, he moved with swift grace, crushing and dragging the bald man’s head against the wall. His whole hand swallowed the skull of the doorman, as he thrust it, over and over, into the rough brickwork behind. Upon letting go, the body slumped into a bloodied pile at their feet.  He had never been a man of many words, but a man of many maneuvers. Touching the boss was a cardinal sin, and Claus was more than happy to rid him of those.

“Got anything for a headache?” Joker scoffed at the lifeless bundle, as they each, in turn, stepped over the doorman and into the building.

The place was alight with activities, people rushing to and from, barking orders, running costumes, repeating lines, that Joker and his men were able to pass through completely unnoticed. Although it was nesasary in order to get this job done, Joker didn’t like the way that he blended in amongst them. He was a lion stalking the sheep, and they were all too distracted to notice. _Not for long._

They didn’t hang backstage, and moved quickly onward. Though he’d looked for her, Joker hadn’t yet spotted the current thorn in his side, Harleen Quinzel. Just as well since he wanted to wait for that _opportune moment_. The moment that would compliment her star-quality ( _who was he kidding?! She needed all the help she could get!_ ) and give it that extra pizzazz.

They managed to sift their way through to the proscenium. Joker being the only sleight one of the three, Claus the goliath that he was, and Eric the rotund, barrel chested man, drew far more attention than was needed, just getting through the crowds and to their seats. Joker was thankful when they finally made it up to their own private gallery above, with a fantastic view of both the stage and the audience below.

Soon all word would once again be of Joker, their clown prince, and no more of dainty, dancing Miss Quinzel. Just as it should be in **his** city.

 

 ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

 

Dancers were stretching and actors were at their lines, flipping frantically through worn scripts and warming up. Crew members were hurriedly dragging sets, stage, dresses and props, all blurring through the last minutes before curtains opened. Harleen watched it from the wings, sipping sweet honey and lemon, an unusually quiet bundle of nerves admist the chaos.

She was anxious, but excited – taking a moment of calm for herself before the start of the show. She could feel it in her bones, that she was standing on the precipice. That tonight, she was going to fire off and into the stars. Harleen was going to be transformed before a real, live audience, that would love and adore her. She was sure of it. And Harleen could sense the change out there, from the low buzz of the crowd beyond the curtain. She was going to thrill the citizens of Gotham, from here on out – until her name was up in lights brighter than the batsignal.

“Harleen–”

A familiar and unwelcome voice broke her train of thought, and Harleen was bought back to the realm of reality by Peyton Riley who stood accompanied by an auburn haired gentleman, his features as handsome as Riley’s were beautiful.

“Hey?”

“I just wanted to introduce you to my fiancé before we start,” Peyton smiled, “he’s looking forward to the show, I thought it only right that I’d bring him to see _the star_.”

Harleen felt her cheeks flush despite herself, struggling to keep a hold of her composure. It didn’t matter that it was spoken with a bitterness, the flattery remained the same.

Wait – fiancé? Harleen was honestly expecting Peyton to be latched onto the arm of the director and yet – it wasn’t really surprising to think Peyton was not only rich, talented, gorgeous, she was also engaged to be married to a wealthy, chiselled man. Her cheeks weren’t hot because of _flattery_ now.

“Thomas Elliot,” he jutted out a stiff hand towards her and they barely touched before breaking apart.

“Harleen… Nice ta’ meet ya’.”

He didn’t even pretend to be Interested. “I’m here front row with a friend,” he spoke matter-of-factly. “Peyton has been such a support to me the last couple of months, I can only return the favour tonight.”

Riley _aww’d_ and _coo’d_ at his arm and Harleen’s stomach twisted. She forced her widest smile none-the-less, “well ain’t that _somethin’_.”

“I’m sure she’ll be just as much support for you in the months ahead.”

There was nothing about Riley that spelt support for Harleen. She was a _threat_ , acting as a friend. Peyton as her understudy was of little to no comfort at all.

“FIVE MINUTES GUYS–”

A crew member, covered head to toe in wires and walkie-talkies, ran across the stage, alerting all those who still lingered that show was soon to start. Harleen was thankful for the abrupt break to an awkward encounter, more determined than ever to cement herself as Gotham’s most beloved before Riley got even a sniff of a chance at what was destined for _her_ and _her_ alone.

“You better get to your seat,” Peyton purred at her man, “you wouldn’t want to leave Bruce on his own down there, who knows what company he’ll drag in.”

“You’re right,” Elliot chuckled (even his laugh sounded callous and cold) “a typical Wayne, through and through.”

And they embraced, a superficial, stagnant expression before parting ways. Harleen watched with an odd fascination as Thomas Elliot flitted off-stage and out of sight. To go sit alongside Bruce Wayne of all people. _How the other half live, huh?_

She didn’t get much time to think about that, as more of the cast began to position themselves on stage. Though nerves coursed through her veins, Harleen was _ready._ Peyton could shake her, but couldn’t shake the feeling that lingered in her soul. This was her time, and nothing was going to get in her way.

Peyton rushed to position, and Harleen too found her spot. The backdrop was pushed centre, and the ensemble found their place for the opening sequence. The music struck up first, bold and brilliant, big band extravaganza, and as the curtains opened, they were all blinded by the lights.

The audience was enthralled throughout, as each dance number, each song, was more captivating than the last. Harleen stole the cold hearts of the Gothamite crowd, with her animated tap-dancing, and her soft, sweet voice. She had ‘em _hooked_. Her sequinned costumes had her lit up like a diamond, and she owned the stage as she had never done before. Like she’d been _made for it._


	3. STANDING OVATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You either live or die for the applause.

There were a few brief moments where Joker’s anger subsided just long enough for him to appreciate the glitz and glamour of the production. That is, until the applause after each number would shake the stands, and Joker was once again reminded of his reason for attending. Every time he saw her face aglow with pride at the admiration of the crowd, _he remembered_. And thin white fingers twitched around the handle of his violin case.

Each smile she flashed had his belly tightening, and Joker watched her with such an unbreakable focus it felt as though the performance was solely for him. When the spotlight was on her, and the auditorium was dark, she was dancing and singing _only for him_.

And she was _ablaze_ on the stage, glittering like a fiery angel atop a christmas tree of electric lights. The audience swooned for her, cheered for her and cried tears for her, as she paraded around, primed by their pleasure. And though he loathed to admit it, he could not keep his eyes off of her.

And Joker wondered if she’d have that same sparkle in her eyes, that same smile on her face, with his hands about her throat and squeezing on her windpipe. He wondered if she’d burn so bright she’d become cinder beneath him. If she’d still look as immaculate and invirogated after he was done with her. Joker knew that she would not, for she was as false as the role that she was playing, and that Harleen Quinzel was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

The final song-and-dance was closing down the show, and pulling himself from his hypnosis, Joker nodded to his goons either side. _It was time._ They hurried to crack open their cases to retrieve their guns, perched up on the balcony and waiting. Joker hoisted up the Tommy, ready and willing.

They waited, and waited. Waited for the show to end and the curtain to drop, waited for the flowers to fall from the stands. And waited with anticipation as the cast came out in turn to bow, curtsey and drink in the applause. It seemed like forever for Joker, who only wanted _Harleen Quinzel_. And _finally_ – she appeared to him, holding a bouquet almost as big as she was, skin flushed with pink, round eyes wet with happy tears.

The audience erupted for her, and Joker stood on impulse to get a better view – no, _aim._ Blood ran hot in his veins as she drank in their attention, their love for her. His eyes stung the longer he stared at her. His lips curling in disgust.

“Now–” he ordered hoarsely, and Eric fired a single shot into the air from his rifle.

The crowd was stunned into immediate silence and though Joker’s ears rang with the echo of cheers, he had killed the celebration _dead_. Eyes from all across the auditorium were snapped from Harleen and over to the three of them hanging over the gallery.

“HEY!” Joker yelled, and took great pleasure in watching her turn to face him, expression no longer tearfully ecstatic, but etched in confusion and fear.

“Who _is_ that?” Joker heard from the public below, and was quickly reminded of his disguise. He drew a sleeve roughly across his face in order to remove the make-up. It was harder than it looked.

“I don’t know!” yelled another audience member.

Tough crowd. “ _For fucks sake_!” Joker dragged a hand across his face again, having removed even more of the residue to the chalky white beneath, and then tore away at his wig, unveiling the signature green of his own hair.

It was as though the entire theatre took a singular breath at once, as somebody screamed, “it’s the Joker!”

_Finally!_

Harleen’s mouth dropped, and Joker laughed manically at her stunned expression. “Loved the show Harls!” he yelled across at her, loving more the terror written plainly on her face, “why don’t I give you that STANDIN’ OVATION?!” and he slammed his finger on the trigger raining bullets on the the people below.

 

_**RATATATATATA** **ATATATATATATATAKAKAKAKAKAKAKAK!** _

 

Harleen stood frozen, _horrified_ , as bullets littered her people and shredded them up like paper. They were running, screaming, flailing for the exits. Clambering the stage, clogging up doors, and crawling beneath the chairs. Seats had been torn to foam by slugs, and torsos and limbs to pulp. She swayed on her feet at the sights and sounds, unable to comprehend the rhyme or reason for this atrocity before her. Her bouquet fell from her hands to scatter flowers across bodies, her arms suddenly limp and weak.

“I’m _gunnin’_ for you Quinn!” came Joker’s voice from up in the boxes, and her heart had stalled in her chest at his hysterical laughter.

The ripping of gunfire stilled in the proscenium at this announcement, to be heard off through the walls, as Joker found the stairs, making his way from the balcony and down to her level.

_Fuck._

Every fibre of her being screamed for escape, and Harleen spun and darted to the wings, headed backstage, to the nearest exit she could possibly reach. She ran, lungs hot with every panting breath she took, lunging the corners to be stopped dead in her tracks by a sheer giant of a man, resting on his shoulder – _a BAZOOKA?!_

She screeched, shrill and desperate, tearing back the other way, heels clacking madly on the wood.

_What the–!!_

Harleen headed back out across the stage, where again, she was stopped by gunpoint. This time, a portly man with a rifle blocked her exit from the theatre. She couldn’t even feel the heavy sobs that left her, nor the tears that streamed down her face and salted her lips.

“Be a good girl an’ come with us and I won’t have ta’ hurt ya’”

She made a run for it – jolting over ravaged seats, Harleen bolted, bursting her way through to the staff corridor. Years of track, years of gymnastics -- years of dance, had honed her athleticism, and it came of use to her now. She heard gunfire closely behind, more gunfire further off, and screams burst and echoed throughout the venue.

Harleen slumped against the wall and into the woman’s bathroom, only to find it was without any windows or means of escape. Her cries were so hard, they were silent, as she dragged herself into a cubicle and locked the door. She pulled her feet up onto the toilet, and clasped at her mouth tightly. She could not contain the ebbing grief without it, where she would crouch and wait for death to come for her. _Not like this -- not like this!_ This wasn't how it was meant to be.

She heard a scuffle from outside, of punches being thrown and the clattering of a rifle. She held her breath until her lungs blazed, and the door of the bathroom swung open.

“Miss Quinzel?” a male voice called out to her, a voice she recognised from the television, from interviews and press conferences – Bruce Wayne? But she remained silent, cooped up in her cubicle, her voice so small that it wouldn’t come out. _Help me._

Fire rattled off in the distance, with laughter – awful laughter – and the bathroom door closed shut. So all the money in the world and it couldn’t buy some bravery. She sunk into the seat, body trembling. _Why? Why? Why? **Why?**_

After a momentary lapse in emotional control, Harleen cried heavily into her clawed hands, cramped up and rigid with fear. But she only took a moment for it, before forcing herself to her feet and unbolting the door. She couldn’t just stay sitting here, the Joker would eventually find her – _and then what?_

Harleen whimpered as she stepped out and into the corridor, saw the portly man on the floor, disarmed and unconscious, with no gun to be seen. She continued to brave the great unknown, gingerly making her way around each and every corner. Wiping her eyes when her vision blurred with tears. There were still yells and cries throughout, but no gunfire, no laughter. Had the Joker given up on pursuing her? She managed to stop off at her changing room, still uprooted and messy from her tantrum the night before. Harleen groped for her keys and left everything else.

There was the door, ahead – with nothing blocking her path to it. No giants, no _bazookas_. The stage exit that led directly to the car park and directly to her means of escape. She ran, ran with a new lease of energy, keys jangling in her fist, threw open the door and out into the night, where she thundered towards her car in the distance, the cold whipping at her drenched face.

A loud whooshing zoomed past her, and before her mind had the time to process it, her car rocketed upwards, a mushroom cloud of orange and red, of scorching metal and burning petrol. She turned to see the huge man who had taken out her car in _one clean shot_.

She screamed, she screamed until it felt as though her chest would explode, until a hand wound it’s way around her neck and squeezed ever-so-slightly.

“Shhh.”

Her eyes roved to the side to seek the man who was pressed against her, one hand twisting an arm behind her back, and another at her throat. The corpse white of his face was only half visible through caked foundation, as though a demon had chipped it’s way through to the outside. His lips, his cheeks, his shirt, were deep red and smeared with blood. And his smile – _his smile_ – Blackness seeped into edges of her vision, and a ringing in her ears was deafening. Harleen could see the Joker’s mouth move, but could no longer hear or make out the words that he spoke. Her heart hammered violently, and her limbs tingled with pins and needles, until the blackness overwhelmed and all consciousness was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter -- you can't go wrong with J and a Thompson, I always figured he was a violin man! :) L x  
> ( catch me over at madluv.tumblr.com too )


	4. AUTOGRAPHS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you wish for.

_Delicate, diamanté heels sifted through scattered roses, that kept on falling until she was waltzing through a carpet of florals. The noise, the cameras, the many hundreds of faces, eyes wide and shining, all looked up in idolisation through streams of petals and confetti. She’d done it – she’d made it – and her heart swelled with joy. She was filled with love, and light. It glowed beneath her skin, and she shone like the brightest beacon. Uplifted, she was floating, higher and higher – and she couldn’t stop rising. But the higher she rose, up into the heavens of the domed theatre, among the clouds and the cherubs, the harder it was to hear the joyous chorus of the fans beneath. The sound distorted, to laughter, a high and horrible laughter, to distant echoing cries – of grief. She squinted down at the people below, and realised, with a sudden pang of fear, the falling petals had turned to bullets, raining down upon her admiring crowd. And they were too enamoured to notice the holes that opened them up, too drawn by her light to realise the sea of roses at their feet had turned into a churning sea of blood and rising._

_No –_

_The elation, the warm embrace of acceptance, that weightlessness, dissapated in an instant. And she grew heavy, struggling to stay afloat and above the hellish scene below. She flailed, taking ahold of the lip of the balcony, and hung suspended over the crimson maelstrom._

_“Somebody help! Anybody!” Her voice crackled, arms trembling with the weight, fingers slipping, “– please!”_

_Rough hands grabbed for her wrists, so tight that it hurt, and Harleen looked up to be greeted face-to-face with her rescuer. The Joker. “Wakey-wakey,” he breathed, hot air against her sore cheeks and her mouth emptied with screams._

_“Let– go– of me!” Harleen squealed, frantic and thrashing as his garish, stark features hovered over her, grinning wildly like a Cheshire cat._

_“Whatever ya’ say Harls,” he laughed, and released his grip without argument, eyes glinting as he stepped back and into the shadows._

_It was too late to cry back out for him, as Harleen’s fingers slipped one by one, arms gave way, and she plummeted down, down into the mass of writhing bodies, and sank deep into the liquid abyss._

Harleen spluttered, chest burning as she choked up a lungful of water. She heaved, but her stomach was empty. With her chin resting limply against her collar bone, Harleen was panting, soaked through.

Before she was able to catch back her breath, another pale of freezing water was thrust at her face. The shock of it bought her senses back to lucidity – and Harleen came to realise, immediately, that she was bound tight. Bound to a chair by reams and reams of flickering fairy lights.

_What’s happenin’ to me?_

“J, she’s awake.”

The announcement came from a clown-masked figure, who lingered by the dim light of the TV, white noise. Watching her patiently, with the bucket he’d used to half drown her swinging at his side. She tried to scream but her throat was raw, and nothing but a mewling squeak escaped.

“Don’t do this, _please_.” Harleen struggled weakly against the many plastic binds that blinkered from her shoulders to her shins. “Don’t hurt me, please – I’ll do _anythin’!_ You don’t gotta do anythin’ please –”

“You don’t gotta do anythin’!” approached Joker, voice high and mocking on the tail end of a chuckle. Whose thin silhouette stepped through the dusty beams of moonlight, his own set and stage inside an old abandoned warehouse. He was followed by his men, who too, laughed, and came to stand before her, eyeing her hungrily – a pack of hyenas drooling for meat.

Harleen was certain her heart had stopped beating, her muscles grew rigid, and nerve endings buzzed and tingled with terror. “Oh – _God_ –”

“Not quite,” The Joker grinned, and flicked open, with a flash, a butterfly knife.

Harleen whimpered, staring up through a dirtied, sodden fringe of platinum blonde. “ _Please_ –”

He bent forward, lifting her chin with the gentle press of the blade, until their eyes met and he smiled at her, his eyes sharper and more piercing than that of the knife at her throat. This was it -- her mind screamed -- it was it, it was over. 

“You don’t look much like your photos,” he said, scrutinising her each and every feature, as the Joker indicated to the front page of a recent newspaper, pinned up against wall by all manner of sharp and unspeakable objects.

“Why are yer – why are ya’ doin’ this to me?” Her body shook violently. Her back arched against the back of the chair, desperately seeking inches of distance between them and the knife. Tears streamed down her face, her skin raw and sticky.

His smile was unwavering, and his head tilted to the side, curious. “Why?” He laughed and looked back at his men to prompt them to join him in his giggling. A chorus of howls. “Why am I doing this? You mean to say _you don’t know?_ ”

Harleen shook her head, the tiniest and most terrified movement. She didn't. “No.”

There was a flicker of anger in his features, and the corners of his bright red lips dropped. “Well, _Harleen_ , I don’t take to _thieves_ too kindly you know – and you sure enough _stole_ from me, kid.”

 _Thief?_ Harleen’s mind was a mess. Terrified, confused, she wracked her brain trying to understand. “I’ve never –” she shook her head again, pleading, “I ain’t ever taken anythin’ from ya’ I swear it! You’ve got the wrong gal–” She hadn't -- she couldn't understand. Couldn't grasp at any coherent thought. His knife at her neck was piercing, and she shuddered against it's coolness.

“No. _No_. No. No. No. _No._ I’ve got the _RIGHT GAL_ and I know it ‘cause I watched you do it from right under my nose–”

The prick of the knife was at her jaw, and Harleen squeaked as he broke the skin, she could feel the sickly warmth, the beads of blood as it trickled, with sweat, down her neck. She shook uncontrollably. “I swear to ya’ Jo– Mr – _Mista’ J_ , I ain’t–”

“You did it with style kid, I’ll at least give you that.” And the Joker straddled her lap, knife between his teeth, to don a pair of thin blue medical gloves he pulled from his sleeve like a morbid magician. He flashed her a brilliant smile, and gave her sore face a few sharp taps before resting the knife against her mouth instead. “An’ now you got me _all riled up_ ,” he tutted. Her face stung and tingled -- her temperature rose to unbearable levels. _Please, stop._ Her chest thumped with such violence, she thought she'd be sick.

“Please, _don’t –_ ”

“Wait!” The Joker’s head snapped from her to the fat man she’d faced at the theatre, who came huffing over. “Before ya’ do ya’ thing boss –” A tiny breath escaped her then.

 

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“What do you think you’re doing Eric?!” Joker hissed, withdrawing the blade from the girl’s lips and pointing it at him.

And Eric stalled his advance, hands up to reveal a pen in one hand, and a screwed sheet of paper in the other. Joker’s eyes narrowed, _what the fuck_ , and he barked again, “I said, what do you WANT?!” Was he going to get an answer or not? “You better have some good reason to be disturbing me.” Joker snapped, and felt Harleen Quinzel trembling beneath him at the threat. He was already regretting _hugely_ his decision to have had Eric’s unconscious lump retrieved and dragged from the building, when he and Claus could of handled Miss Quinzel’s fainting body on their own.

“I figured boss – before ya’ do this, I was wonderin’ if perhaps… I could get an autograph?” Two beady, hopeful, beetle-black eyes flitted to Harleen Quinzel, and Joker _seethed,_ grinding his teeth.

“You've got to be _joking_ ” Joker growled, though threateningly calm at the query. Eric would certainly make a shit comedian. 

“I just thought that–”

“I’ll do it! Anything!” The blonde mess that Joker perched upon piped up, shrilly. “Hell, I’ll give ya’ all the autographs ya’ want  – signed photos, you name it I can get ‘em – just let me speak with my agent 'n I can get ya’ whatever ya’ want!”

In a brash moment of flaring anger, Joker took hold of her throat and squeezed, shutting off her noise with one white-knuckled fist. And he _squeezed_ until her legs twitched beneath him, watched her gaping for air he’d shut out of her lungs. “You wanna steal my men from me too, huh?” he whispered harshly against her ear, before letting her go and leaving her gasping. He turned his attention to Eric, now white as a sheet.

“I take that as a no then–” Eric backed off.

“You _do that._ ”

“I’ll do anythin’ ya’ want–” Miss Harleen Quinzel muttered, amidst rattling breaths he'd allowed her to take. “But please, don’t kill me– I don’t wanna– I’ve never taken anythin’ from you.”

“That’s where you’re _wrong_ , kid.” Joker shifted in his little seat on her lap, inching ever closer. “You thought you could steal the people of Gotham from me? You thought you could just spring up and take whatever you wanted?”

And Joker watched as she looked up at him through watery, wide eyes, listening intently to his question. Her small, delicate lips trembling, the pale, soft skin of her neck, already reddened by the tight grip of his hand. “I never thought–”

“You think they want  _you_ do you? A little thing like you, their flavour of the month?” He laughed, coldly, poking gently the needle point of his knife up into her gums. “I’m gonna show you _princess_ , just how wrong you are.”

Joker could hear her heart thudding violently, and her hands clenched and twitched as she shuddered with fear beneath him.

“Whattabout a selfie instead?” Eric was _relentless_.

"That's _**I**_ _ **T!** "_ Joker lept up from Harleen’s lap without warning, veins burning the rage. “I swear to _Christ_ , Eric if you don’t shut your mouth I will _cut out_ your _tongue_!” Both men and his captive shifted in fear of his outburst, and a deathly silence fell within the warehouse.

“You hearing this, kid –” Joker laughed, loud, exaggerated -- it echoed. “You're all tied up and _bleeding_ and this fucking dunce here wants to know if you'd like to take a selfie.” He howled, with laughter, but not for any second did he find this remotely funny. “These are the people you want to love you?!” HA! HA! _HA!_ **HA!**

Harleen winced at his shouting, crying silently, tears ran red tracks down her distraught little face. “Not everybody–”

“Oh no, Miss Quinzel, _EVERYBODY._ ” Joker waggled his knife at her, “everybody is _just like this."_ There's a lesson for you. "The people of Gotham would just as much cheer you on stage, as they would you being strung up and shanked by me." She'd get just as much credibility in her passing career, as she would the Joker's next victim -- couldn't she see? "'cause Gotham’s people are _MY people_ , and I’m gonna show you just that – _you wait –_ ” And Joker slammed the knife into the wood of the chair beside her head, so that it splintered and stuck. “Keep watch,” he barked an order -- too ramped up to really get to the real work. “Gag her if you have to.” And he stood abruptly from the seat in her lap. “Don’t you go anywhere,” he told Harleen, before storming off into the darkness, big boots dragging and scuffed against the dirty concrete.


	5. THE INTERVIEW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy is not your colour.

Joker had left Harleen Quinzel in the care of his men for three days, where he had taken the time to mull over his next move against her. The thing with Harleen, now that he had her, was his involvement in her kidnapping had only worked to elevate her status in the eyes of Gotham citizens. And that by Joker having openly shown interest in pursuing her, the masses now followed suit. Just _who_ was Harleen Quinzel and why did the Joker want her? It was the current talk of the town, much to his chagrin. And though Joker thoroughly enjoyed knowing there was a compelled audience discussing his work, the fact that his name was closely followed by her own, was not so easy to accept. It seemed that the whispers of Joker went arm in arm with the cries for Harleen Quinzel, and he didn’t like it. _Not one bit._

He needed a _new approach_ – if he kept her captive for long enough, he knew the public interest would only naturally fizzle out. And he knew that by killing her and dumping her body, there would be a brief time of mourning for their short-lived celebrity, and then the hype, again, would soon die out. Though both efficient and easy options for Joker, he couldn’t erase the thought that told him it would be a _waste_ if he were to act upon them. That he could do something much _bolder_ and _grander_ with the gift he’d swept up from the stage. That there was something _more_ , something _essential_ he was missing. He'd just need some time to find it. And lucky for him (perhaps not so much for her) Joker had all the time in the world.

And so, with a taped interview he’d carefully recorded off the news the night before (nibbling popcorn alone at his penthouse) tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket, Joker sped his way back to the warehouse, and back to his new project within.

The fairy lights wound about Harleen were no longer as taut, or as well placed as Joker had originally done for her. The constant unlashing and relashing of her binds due to bathroom breaks had taken it’s toll on his set-up. Nor did half the bulbs light up anymore. One of his men had tucked their large, leather jacket over her shoulders, so that she was blanketed from her neck to her knees to shield her from the morning chill, and her heels had been removed to make way for giant socks, also donated, for warmth. Joker noted that she hadn’t been gagged as he’d suggested – and that a scattering of playing cards in her lap told him they’d been passing the time, Joker had been absent, with games instead. The scene looked more _after-party_ , than hostage/homicide, which wasn’t truly that unusual for Joker.

It was the orange hours of dawn, and along with most of his men, Harleen was still asleep. Her head sagged low and breathing calmly, her chest rose and fell in steady succession. Joker approached her, treading very cautiously and without footfalls, to retrieve his knife still embedded inches from her ear.

And Harleen stirred on the grating sound of splintered wood, no matter the care he’d taken, and her eyes flickered open to stare up at him. At first dazed – and then filled with horror upon realisation of the figure before her. “Shh – shh.” A finger pressed to his lips only made her worse, and she screamed so loudly and so suddenly even Joker jumped.

His guys all roused in confusion and the echoed clicking of guns, to aim instinctively, but unintentionally, at their own boss.

“Oh it’s _you_.”

“It’s just J, everyone relax–”

“Couldya’ have dropped us a text first?”

A relevant point, Joker chose to ignore it. “I see you’ve been _having fun_ ,” he stated, dusting the hand of cards from Harleen’s thighs, and his entourage fell quiet considering the rhetoric.

“Havin' fun-- are you _mad_?” Harleen snapped, and Joker was taken aback by the fact she’d spoken, rather than screeched.

He grinned at her question. How apt.  “Well, I’m sure glad you asked toots, most people _just assume_.”

And though she trembled in his wake, her eyes were daggers and bravely challenging -- considering her position. So, Miss Quinzel was **not** a morning person. _Noted_.

“I got something that’ll cheer ya' right up,” he continued, pulling the TV and it’s tall, steel stand forward so that Harleen was positioned nicely before it. “I bought you a present.”

He noticed that momentary bravery dissappear at the notion of a gift, and Harleen’s eyes flitted to and from him to the little television set, thoroughly concerned and distrustful. But she said nothing and simply watched as he pulled out the vhs, and fed it to the player.

“Gather round boys,” he beckoned his men to join them, and too found a chair to drag across – perching himself adjacent to Quinzel, so he could watch her expressions intently. He was excited to see her reaction to this particular piece of footage he himself had howled at. And had chosen it with much consideration, of all the coverage, _this_ would be the one to watch.

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Harleen didn’t want to watch whatever the Joker had intended for her. She didn’t want to take her eyes off of his, off of his idle hands, or his ever changing expressions. But she was frightened, she was threatened and she was so, _so tired_ that the white noise fizzing on the little screen seemed to draw her in, and pull her from her bleak and terrible situation.

His goons had been mostly good to her. Not good enough to set her free, but good enough to feed her, and good enough to take her to the old bathrooms and let her piss without sneaking a peak. They weren’t entirely devoted, but neither were they _deranged_ – and Harleen didn’t batter an eyelid as they pulled up rusted steel chairs to join them. Joker, however, was far too close for comfort.

The familiar jingle of Gotham City News blurted out from the box before them. And the anchors therein looked on, shuffling blank papers and feigning looks of sadness. Harleen squinted for a better focus, but could not read the subtitles or highlights without her glasses. Though it didn’t take much to guess what the subject matter would be.

 _“It has been a tragic few days for the people of Gotham City,”_ spoke a grave-faced woman, _“with no news yet on the disappearance of Harleen Quinzel – the police assure us they are working tirelessly in hopes of bringing her back, safe and sound.”_

 _“Indeed,”_ spoke another, a man so pampered by make-up, he shon at the camera. _“The commissioner has turned on the batsignal, and we can hope that the greatest detective is already working steadily on the case.”_

Harleen noticed the Joker turn to the television at the mention of _that_ , and he scoffed loudly, flicking up the volume on the set before catching her watchful eye –

Harleen became too preoccupied with his video however. And it was surreal to see her photos flash up on the screen, on what had been live television. A tiny, _a teensy_ , a terrible part of her felt a squirming joy at the thought of so many people talking about her, looking for her. She stared hard at the screen, hard enough for her eyes to ache, in order to fight the smallest impulse to simply smile at the reception she was receiving, even second hand.

 _“It’s not all doom and gloom,”_ the gent tried to remind the viewers. _“There has been a great deal of bravery, of resilience shown from the cast and crew – and here we are now, with Vicki Vale and the lovely Peyton Riley. How are you doing Vicki?”_

The screen flitted to a live location, a busy street near a different theatre, thin sheets of rain muffling the sound from their microphones. The red-head reporter paled in comparison to her counterpart, Peyton Riley, who looked to the camera with a coy and careful simper.

 _“There’s still a great deal of pain here–”_ spoke Vicki through the drizzle, mic pressed to her lips, _“and such a sense of loss– but everyone has come together in order to make this work. They are going to continue on with the production, despite the heinous actions of the Joker. To stand tall against the enemy, isn’t that right, Miss Riley?”_

The Joker laughed loudly at his mention, but Harleen ignored him, leaning closer still to the TV, filled with dread for what Riley had to say.

Peyton pulled back her blonde locks for a better shot from the camera. _“Oh yes, Vicki, most definitely. Though we miss Harleen terribly, and it won’t be the same without her, we know she’d have wanted the work to continue here.”_ She flashed a set of brilliantly white teeth, _“the show must go on, as Harleen would have said–”_

“Tha’s a lie!” Harleen cried out at the screen, despite herself – and drew odd and questioning looks from all but the Joker, who smirked from ear to ear.

“She a friend of yours?”

 _“I’ll be performing in place of Harleen Quinzel until she is back home safe and ready for our company,”_ Riley spoke with a sickeningly convincing assurance. _“We’re all praying for you Harleen, please come home–”_ and the recording ended abruptly.

Harleen still watched the screen, though blank, her stomach knotted and throat tight. Is _this_ how the Joker had felt, seeing her in the papers? Is that why, out of all the footage he could have recorded, he’d chosen _this_? No wonder she was strapped to a chair, tear-and-blood stained. Her fists were balled, and she squeezed her nails into her palms to keep from crying. This just – _it wasn’t fair!_ She’d made it, she’d had it all within reach, she’d taken it and now, now it sat in the hands of the one person she’d tried so hard to keep it from. She sniffled.

“Are you crying?” the Joker asked, with the _least_ concern she’d heard in her life. And his coldness triggered an avalanche of emotion, until she was sobbing so hysterically she could barely breathe.

None of them, not even the Joker, seemed prepared for her outburst, and all of them moved back a few inches to make way for her tirade of frustration and sadness.

“Do you want me to _kill her_?” The Joker suggested in the most casual tone. It  struck a chord somewhere within Harleen, that she wailed even louder and could not stop.

“Oh g–great, so y–you wanna r–replace me a– as well, do ya’? You– wanna s–swap me out too– that I – I can’t even k–keep a murderer e–entertained enough–”

The Joker looked to his men as though searching for answers, and Harleen sobbed loudly, heavily, all the while. A couple of them shrugged.

“Am I – I – that terrible – that I can’t even – can’t even – keep a killer wantin’ to kill me– s–so it – it’s not just t–them it’s y–you too?”

“Hey, settle down kid, you’re scaring the boys.”

“J, you can’t promise a girl you’re gonna kill her, and then not. That’s _just cold_.”

“Yeah, boss, you can’t build it all up like this and then bring in someone new, that ain’t gonna work–”

“That’s not what I meant! I never said that!” His eyes darted back and forth from his men to Harleen, brows furrowed as he snapped their comments shut. When his gaze came to meet with Harleen again, it stilled her hysteria and silenced her cries.

“Don’t you worry,” he told her with a light chuckle, and extended a thin finger to outline the delicate shape of her jaw, “I’m still gonna kill ya’, don’t you worry your pretty little head about _that_ –”

And Harleen couldn’t tear away from his gaze, though she spilled over with tears and looked back through a watery haze. The Joker had her _transfixed_. _Somehow_ able to drag her from her despair, he held her in a frozen moment, where all the hurt, the pain and the insult had gone, and instead left her with one overwhelming, all-consuming feeling, the fear and anticipation of _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this during an all-nighter but I liked the idea and stuck with it.  
> J's goons must have taught Harley how to play poker -- 'cause all she's good at is go fish! L x


	6. WINED AND DINED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little luxury goes a long way.

They’d finally loosened up on the Christmas light bondage, and Harleen had been granted some small freedoms ever since her emotional fireworks following the Peyton tape. She was unsure if that had been the reason for the change of plan, or if this was simply another part of the Joker’s game, where she remained the unwilling pawn. Still, Harleen was now allowed to wander the entirety of the ground floor of the warehouse, and though she was, of course, on constant surveillance (and sometimes at knife or gunpoint) the Joker appeared to have authorised her a fair bit of _leg room_. It beat being bound to a chair none-the-less.

As the days flickered by and blended into the next, the raw fear of the Joker’s announcement – _the promise he’d kill her_ – ebbed away to a quiet paranoia. The less she saw of the clown and the less he acted on it, the less time she lingered on the thought of it.

Instead, Harleen spent most of her time on domestic chores, on sweeping, dusting, and along with the help of the Joker’s men and their cleptomania, had managed to make herself a little sanctum of sorts. For though it was her prison, that did not mean it had to _look_ like one. They’d used the battered stream of lights, that had once been her bonds, to wrap around a steel beam. They had then, under her instruction, dragged in a mattress to sit beneath the multicolour blinkers. They’d rolled out a tattered rug for her and supplied her with blankets stale with cigarette smoke. In payment, she’d given them the autographs they’d so wanted, and for Eric, she’d offered up her bra. Of which he was _very_ grateful.

The Joker’s guys worked in shifts around Harleen, bringing pizza, fast foods, and clothes, either from their girlfriends, wives or their own wardrobes. They’d managed to get a shower cubicle working for her use, and Harleen had been so grateful of this, she’d hugged the masked man tightly, whom had stood rigid and awkwardly, eyes averted despite her having already donned a towel.

Harleen wasn’t alone here. In fact, she’d felt more alone back at her empty home in town, or in the busy city bars and restaurants, than she felt in this place. She was a little hurt by the implications in that. And though redecorating her patch in the dusty setting had helped to distract her from the horror which she currently lived, her mind would wander back to the life she’d had, the life she’d _grasped_ for, before the Joker had shown up and pulled the red carpet out from under her feet.

It had been everything she’d wanted, hadn’t it? The love, the adoration – yes, without question, that’s what she had wanted. _Still_ wanted. But the world in which it came from had been altogether different from what she’d hoped, what she’d dreamed it would be. The metaphorical knives she’d come to find in her back, were sharper than any of those in the Joker’s possession, and their faces and smiles wilder and falser than that of his too.

The director had taken advantage of her desperation, when she’d first been proposed for the role – and had assured her that, by offering certain _generocities_ , she would leap rungs on the ladder to success. Harleen, however, had not realised that those generocities had meant skirt hiked up to her chest, and bent over the leathers in his pop-up apartment. Nor fucked without end (or climax) at nameless motels whenever it suited.

She hadn’t realised, either, how the wealthy elite pursuing the same craft would shun her, for her near-on-empty bank account, her modest background, her career niaviety – even scrutinising her energetic, friendly and open demeanor, as they considered it inappropriate, and most off-putting of all, gave the common folk _someone to relate to_.

It did at times, bring a choking sadness, to think of how much she’d tried to find a familiar thread among them. That by sacrificing dignity and integrity – of which they had very little – she had only further distanced herself. That, despite all the effort, and later, the short cuts she’d taken, meant that no matter how much she tried to be like them and among them, her face would never, _ever_ fit.

It was true – though it pained her to admit – the Joker was right about the people she had wanted to love her. _Still_ wanted to love her. Was it _so terrible_ though, to want to be loved and adored?

And even in it’s darkest moments, she had _longed_ for it. The fame and admiration. And Harleen knew that she couldn’t stay, she couldn’t stay and wait for the impending promise of death. With each and every dusted surface, swept floor, she closely monitored the patterns of her hulking guards, and decided firmly then, that she would find a means of getting free. That she would reclaim her throne, from Peyton Riley the false queen, and even from the clown prince of crime himself.

And with the Joker nowhere to be seen, Harleen decided, as soon as night fell and the men swapped their night shifts among themselves, she would make her move and escape.

 

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It wasn’t like Joker to do his _funny business_ during the day, but it just so happened that in the more savoury, still-sunny hours in Gotham City, the Penguin’s Iceberg Lounge was shut. And since he wasn’t an intended paying customer, that was exactly how he wanted it. The shutters at the back of the building did very little to deter him, and Joker waved at the CCTV before approaching the security measures, along with two of his men. Claus, as standard, and his more theatrical masked-man Floyd ( _fuck Eric, after all._ ) The electric blue of neon lights buzzed on and off before them, confirming exactly what Joker wanted to see. **Closed.**

Thing was, with Penguin, is that he _always_ had money. He was good with money – no, _very good_ with money – and Joker was, well, _not so much _. He didn’t tend to his books with as much care and precision as Penguin, and therefore often found, after satisfying and superficial splurges, he was once again counting change.__

It didn’t help matters (Joker’s own ludicrous purchases aside) that the new celebrity hostage he was holding, happened to be eating them out of house and home. He had indeed raised a questioning eyebrow when he had witnessed Harleen Quinzel tuck into three pizzas in the space of only hours, and had made a passing pun “you’re a real _pizza work_ , you know that?”

Of which she’d replied very simply, _very rudely_ “fuck _you._ ”

Eric had comforted Joker in that it was only to be expected, that the girl was clearly depressed. _Depressed!?_ He’d got a good laugh out of that one. Not only had they been clothing her – and (constantly) feeding her, he’d been spending his last dollars on satiating her every whim. And so, he found himself outside the Iceberg Lounge, in much need of some serious cash, and knowing exactly where to find it.

He couldn’t, after all, let the girl think he was _broke._ Appearances mattered, mattered _a lot_. The king of the city couldn’t just let his hostage starve. What kind of crime lord would they take him for?

Joker watched as Claus applied the circular saw to the metal, and sparks dotted and burned tiny holes through his suit. It took an excruciating five minutes in plain sight before the sheet tore through and the three of them made entry. The alarm triggered, the sound of a hundred squawking birds – (and they called _him_ mad!) – which meant it wouldn’t be long before Penguin’s tuxedo-donning, guns-blazing henchmen were upon them.

The Iceberg Lounge was a large and lavish affair. Five floors, an ice bar, a gentleman’s club and a museum, the place was a clash of old and new, class and crass. But they weren’t here to sight-see, Joker had, in fact, much bigger fish to fry. And they moved on through the empty vicinity and down into the bowels of the building.

They needed to be fast, and Joker was quick to find the correct room. Speaking of fish, the massive shark tank, and the shark therein, did happen to give it away, and Joker smirked upon breaking and entering into Penguin’s old, misused office. That despite being old, and misused, still held a certain safe Joker had known and wanted for a while. The Penguin's headquarters may have been impressive, but they sure were predictable too.

Claus, without needing direction, noiselessly lifted the massive safe from it’s chains, and uprooted the entirety without even breaking a sweat. They didn’t have time to open it of it’s contents, and Claus carried it back out and into the hall. The big muscle man made it look all too easy. Joker giggled with excitement at their success.

From floors above, even over the racket of the screeching alarm, Joker heard that Penguin’s men had breached. Of many feet marching. And the odd threesome then hurried their way through to the cellar, both Floyd and Joker now leading with guns raised. The Penguin's SWAT were advancing quickly on them, sufficient and speedy, the Penguin got the quality in which he paid for.

Despite the hurry, Joker stopped, suddenly, amongst the barrels and wine racks, inspired. Since Miss Quinzel was so _depressed_ , Joker was certain a couple of bottles of the vintage _good stuff_ would have her in lighter spirits! And he began to survey the stock as though browsing the aisles of a supermarket.

“I reckon she’d like the red, boss,” said Floyd, as though reading Joker’s mind. One thing Penguin didn’t have, and something you couldn’t buy – _comradery_.

“I think you’re right on the mark,” Joker replied, and picked from the shelves three bottles of Château La Mission – and one for luck, which he passed to Floyd to carry, since the workhorse Claus was already stacked full.

They rushed on through the labyrinth of corridors, of strange and odd antiquities, passed the curtained peepholes and podiums, until they made upon the side entrance, which Joker took great pleasure in shattering with a few joyous shots of his pistol. Bang. _Bang_. **Bang!**

The gunfire drew the attention of Penguin’s men in pursuit, and Joker and his cronies had to dart their way back out into the lot, towards the car.

“Mind the leather!” Joker warned, but it was too late – and Claus threw the safe into the back seat, tearing through the cream interior like a knife through butter.

It was fortunate for Claus that Joker didn’t have time to rant about it, as Floyd flung himself into the drivers seat, Claus took the back, and Joker last, leaped into shotgun.

The windshield shattered instantly from a near-deadly shot and Floyd slammed his feet to the floor to create as much distance as possible. Joker cringed with each popping sound of a bullet denting or grazing his car, and whined when the back window was taken out too – “I really liked this one!”

Floyd was too busy dodging oncoming traffic to reassure him, and Claus was quietly setting up a sniper in the back seat.

It was dark by the time the chase subsided, as Penguin’s men had continued to pursue them in black armoured vans. The fuzz had managed to take out two of their vehicles, but hadn’t been able to stop Joker’s beat and battered Lamborghini. Claus had helped tenfold, by taking out the enemy wheel after wheel and they were all exhilarated and relieved when, with their loot still intact, drew up to the waters edge, the warehouse in sight, with no tail to speak of. Another eventful -- successful -- day over.

But something was _off_ as they pulled up to their current hideout, and Joker heard the echoes of shots rattling from inside. He was filled with anger – with _dread_ – at the thought of his hideout being invaded, and even more so considering the content within. Floyd had to slam hard on the breaks as a flash of blonde darted out and in front of them and Joker’s heart leaped up and into his throat. Through the cracked glass, he saw her, clearly shocked and appalled to find Joker blocking her escape, _yet again._ And it all became clear to Joker then, as Harleen Quinzel stared at him, wildly, illuminated by the headlights and frozen in fear. The warehouse was not _under attack,_ it had simply lost it's _one_ possession. As she stood, horror-struck, at the crushed bonnet of his car.

Joker’s stomach writhed with a rage he could barely contain. “You’re gonna wish he’d kept driving –” he muttered, to her, to himself, to the abyss, it didn’t matter. And with a bottle of wine still in hand, wrenched open the door and out to greet his escapee.

“Oh no you _don’t_ –” Joker was able to grab her roughly, before she'd come to her senses, trembling and shaking. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?”

Her little mouth gaped, and she looked up at him in terror. She couldn’t even find a voice in which to answer him. Joker sneered wickedly, taking a fistful of her hair and dragging her from his car. “I give you a little space and this is how you _thank me_?” His skin _burned._ He was so insulted! How dare she treat him this way -- after all he'd done for her so far. "You little --"

She recoiled at his fury and cried out when his fist clenched even harder against her scalp, “ _please–_ ”

_Not this again._

With one solid, hard boot, the door to the warehouse swung open and Joker was met with the sweaty, scared face of Eric, who, rifle in hand, was shaking just as much as Harleen.

“I didn’t mean ta' – she just got away – I didn’t know what –”

**B A N G !**

In one fluid movement, Joker had pocketed the bottle of wine, and withdrawn his pistol, firing one single shot straight into Eric’s head, smattering brain and skull up the stairwell and painting the plaster red.

Harleen erupted. She screamed and wailed within the ringing of gunfire in his ears. She’d gone limp and far easier to guide, as he urged her roughly back into the room she had just escaped from. Joker threw her down upon the chair he’d first had her tied to, and with a shaking hand poised the gun at her face. She cried so hard and so desperately at this, Joker felt nothing but anger – of _loathing_ , as she begged silently for his mercy. “You are pushing me _princess_ ,” he warned, a low and guttural growl, his finger itching at the trigger, so desperately did he just want to --

“Don’t do this – please – I don’t wanna die – _please_ –”

“Bring me two glasses!” he barked at Floyd, who he spotted, along with Claus, dragging in the loot.  His masked henchman hurried off, without further question, despite the odd, unusual request.

Moments passed between Joker and Miss Quinzel, and his eyes burned into her distraught and desperate face. With the barrel still raised at her head, she sat unmoving, tears rolling and _rolling_. The more he stared, the harder it was to keep his hand at the trigger -- and he exhaled loudly, chewing roughly at his lower lip. “You’ve hurt my feelings, you know?” he told her, poking her forehead and prompting only more sobbing. “I had a nice evening planned for us and you go and _do this_.”

“I’m sorry! I’m so– so sorry M–Mister J–”

Floyd returned with two wine glasses as asked. Joker took one for himself and indicated with a nod of his head, that one was intended for Harleen. “Take it,” he told her, still at the end of his gun, and Harleen did without argument, her frightful expression faltered, now etched with confusion.

“Be a good man and pour us a glass, would you?” Joker asked Floyd, in a more sing-song voice than he felt, and watched as Floyd then pulled the wine bottle from Joker’s pocket, pulled the cork with a knife and filled their glasses silently. Harleen’s first, and then Joker’s. “Make hers large one, she needs it.”

Joker clinked the glass with his pistol, urging Harleen to “drink it” but she flinched and hesitated, despite his _encouragement_. “Go on, _drink it_.”

“Is it – it is poison?” her voice was tiny, and she hiccuped her question, sniffling as the wine sloshed in her glass.

Joker’s anger wavered at the sound of her little voice, despite himself. “No, it isn’t poison.” As much as he was furious with her, it was hard to stay _that_ furious. So to prove to her it wasn’t poison, he took his share and necked it back.

Harleen, still crying quietly, drew up her own to her lips and took a long sip, apparently satisfied. She watched him carefully from over the rim of the glass, sniffing back her tears. “It’s good,” she said timidly, draining it to the very last drop. He thought she'd need it.

“How’d you like another, Harls?”

“You– had me– at _merlot_ –”

 _HA!_  "Good one," Joker smiled, the widest smile, and his gun finally fell away from Harleen's face and down to his side. "You heard the girl, fill us up!" 


	7. MERCHANDISE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew,  
> When I bit off more than I could chew,  
> But through it all, when there was doubt,  
> I ate it up and spit it out,  
> I faced it all and I stood tall,  
> And did it my way.

The music drawled and crackled from a scrap-heap gramophone, a crude but recognisable crooning echoed throughout the warehouse, no other choice than that of good old Frank Sinatra, the only vinyl they owned. Harleen was tap-and-kicking to the big band, dressed in an oversized velvet dinner suit, upon her head a jester's hat she'd raided from his henchmen's costume box of many disguises. Her bottle in hand and swigging, Joker wondered if and when she'd notice _it was empty._ The adrenaline and drink coursed through his veins, and the grin on his face only widened at her antics. She was _drunk._ They were both drunk -- though the former certainly more so. She had cried, and laughed, and often both at the same time, having danced with his boys until taking the spotlight all for herself. And like this, he didn't _half mind_ her having it.

Joker sat in his chair, dazed and blurry eyed. "I have to give it to you kid, you're pretty good!" At his comment she had stumbled and Joker had laughed. She was, at the very least, _entertaining_.

"Quit puttin' me off would ya'!"

Harleen was a jester in the king's court, parading around without a single care in the world. You wouldn't have known, from watching her then, that her life had been dragged into turmoil, that she'd been barked at, threatened, been at knife and gunpoint. The alcohol had dulled their senses, but not enough for her to stop dancing, and not enough for Joker to not appreciate it. She was away -- in her _place_ \-- Joker could tell. Despite what she'd been through so far, she was proving to be quite the trooper, and he enjoyed her theatrics a little. Maybe a little more than a little...

He wouldn't _half mind_ either, if she were to stay just like _this._ Joker was actually rather impressed by her talents and he could see, plain as day, why the citizens of Gotham loved her. She was sweet and infectious, when she wasn't crying or begging or tucking her way into expensive take-away. Her smile could light up even the darkest of hearts, but therein was the problem. The citizens of Gotham had turned their ever-wandering eyes to this glittering angel, and had been so foolish to ignore the devil lurking in shadow. And he just couldn't allow for that.

"You really missed an opportunity with your stage name," Joker said, pointing a wavering finger at his jingling hostage. "You should of gone with _Harley Quinn_ \-- you know like a --"

"H--arlequin," she hiccupped, nodding. "I know." She caught his eyes upon her, and her cheeks flushed with pink. _Was that the wine?_ He knew she'd have liked it.

"It suits you better," Joker told her. "You're a natural." He smiled widely at her (he had definitely had one too many glasses himself) "you're lucky--"

"Lucky?" She'd stopped dancing all of a sudden, and now instead, was stagnant, staring at him, an eyebrow raised. "What about my situation gives ya' the idea that _I'm lucky_?" Her words were slurred and she was unsteady on her feet.

Joker shrugged, nonchalant. "Well, you know," he couldn't bring his eyes up to meet with hers. "You've got that _thing_ ," he said, "that special spark, that makes people want to watch you."

Harleen's eyes rolled and she scoffed. Not the reaction he'd expected from a _compliment_. "You have no idea what I've had ta' go through --"

"Oh, but _I do_." He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. "Trust me."

She didn't seem convinced, and taking another swig from the bottle, finally noticed the wine was gone. "Sure ya' do Mister J -- I'm sure ya' do..." She tripped on her own foot, and stumbled slightly on the spot.

"Why do you think I've got you here?" Joker asked, and the question seemed to pique her interest.

"I figured you bein' _a ragin' loon_ was reason enough," it was Harleen's turn to shrug and she gave one barking laugh at her own response. Oh, how _witty_.

"You're _half way_ there," Joker smiled, all teeth. "But _not quite._ The reason I stole you off your stage was to get back _my own_. You're too much of a distraction to my fellow audience that I was left with little choice but to take out the competition. It's been nothing personal."

Her brow furrowed, and Joker realised his explanation had not been taken as well as he'd hoped. Apparently not even the copious amounts of flowing red wine could douse this insult. 

"Nothin' personal?!" Harleen waved the bottle in her temper, and it's base shattered away against a steel support. It was accidental -- and she didn't even notice, still tripping on her own ankles.

"Easy--"

"Ya' mean to tell me, you stole me away because I took you're _attention_?!" She was suddenly waving the broken bottle at his face, _oblivious_. "You ruined my chance at my dream 'cause they were lookin' at me and not _you_?" She laughed, it was loud, harsh and unlike her. "You _are_ mad."

Joker's hands were up in a tiny surrender, backed up against the chair and away from the ragged shards that she jutted at his jaw. "That _is_ the general consensus," he giggled nervously, "but from where I'm sitting, you don't look all that _sound of mind_ yourself--"

"It's a bad angle!" She shot back aggressively, and inched closer in her fury.

 _Watch it, watch it, watch it--_ "Ha! You're telling _me_!"

Harleen lunged. In her clumsy and inebriated state, Joker was quick (lucky) to evade her. He ducked away from the incoming glass and out from underneath her flailing arms, squeezing the neck of the bottle from her grip and onto the floor where it smashed into thousands of sparkling needles. The noise of it shattering seemed to awaken her senses, and he watched as she put two-and-two together, from the mess on the floor, to his hands tightly wound around her wrists. The anger in her features subsided, and Harleen wilted beneath him. "I didn't mean ta'--" She was _frightened_.

"Forget about it," Joker flashed her a smile and wound his hands into hers. Her eyes roved his expression, clearly very wary of his closeness. "You better start dancing with me or they'll be calling you _mannequin_ next," he told her, chuckling. And though unsure at first, Harleen did indeed sway with him -- and a small and gradual smile came back to her tender features as he led her in a gentle circle. He could feel her body jump with each small hiccup she made, and she stepped on his toes more times than he could keep track of. But he led her none the less, through the moonlight, and she came to rest a tired cheek at his chest.

"You're _real funny_ Mister J, ya' know that?"

He smiled. "So I've been told."

 ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

CLUNK. CLUNK. **CLANG**. CLUNK. CLANK. CLUNK. _CLANG._

" _Jesus_ , boys would you give it a fucking rest?!"

Harleen cringed at the sound of the Joker's voice. Not because she had come to be fearful of it, but because her head felt as though it was being split into two and he was _mighty_ _loud_. The Joker too, appeared to be feeling the agony, as her eyes fluttered open to spot him, half-asleep and crookedly perched upon the chair she'd once been strapped to. He looked disgruntled and dishevelled and Harleen doubted she looked any _better_. Somehow, she'd made it onto her mattress last night, and had fallen into an empty and dreamless sleep. It seemed as though the Joker had been much less fortunate, and spent a night, all gangling limbs array on a tiny wooden pedestal. How they'd ended up this way around was nothing short of a mystery, as was the way with many of the events from the previous evening. Harleen could tell by his tone, that the Joker had not slept _well._

His men stopped whatever destructive activity they had been up to, and the Joker groaned aloud from his seat. She propped herself up with her elbows, and watched as he roused to true consciousness. His hands roved through his hair and he sighed before catching her glancing his way. Her heart stilled as he caught her gaze.

"How are you feeling, Harls?" he asked, and his genuine inquiry took her off guard.

"I've felt better--" she answered, and he smiled at her. In the same way he'd smiled as they'd danced through the night. With an almost sincere gentleness. Her heart gave a tiny flutter. _Had they danced?_ The shattered glass that littered the floor told her so, and the tightness in her ribs told her _yes_ , they _had_. She didn't remember much of the night before, but could most certainly recall how his hands had been careful, and considerate. How he'd guided her quietly through the moonlight.

"Claus, get us some eggs!" the Joker then barked another order, and Harleen flinched at the loudness, snapping her unpleasantly from those wandering thoughts. The Joker must have noticed her cringe because he then followed, in a much, _much_ quieter voice, "and some coffee, some water -- some _aspirin_."

The hulking giant she now knew as Claus, hurried away and off to wherever he were to find this list of the Joker's demands.

They ate and drank coffee together, to much less soothing sounds than the night before. They ate to the CLUNK. _CLUNK_. **CLANG.** CLUNK. as the Joker's cronies got back to their work, attempting to crack a safe in the backdrop of their morning breakfast. Not the most pleasant of settings when nursing a hang-over. They feasted, however, in silence, and she glanced at the Joker over the edge of her mug, or from behind a spoonful of yolk. Harleen couldn't help but watch the man go about these regular tasks. Sipping coffee, eating breakfast and -- _they'd danced_. He'd pointed a gun at her face and he'd cut her, choked her and yet, _they'd danced_. And it had been nice somehow. _Real nice._

Finally, when she could no longer resist the urge, Harleen spoke, "Mister-- _UM_ \-- J, you know what you said last night -- about _your audience_?"

His eyes pierced her then, and she stalled -- his gaze was intense and Harleen grew nervous.

"Yes?"

"I think I _kinda_ get it --" she said, eyes downward and focusing hard on scrambling her egg with her fork. It was _fried_.

Joker smiled, and continued on with his meal. "That's _real grand_ kid." 

Did he not believe her? "You really shouldn't feel like that ya' know," Harleen continued, with her eyes on her plate in front of her, she found she could get the words out. "You shouldn't feel like no one's payin' you any mind. Even if I was on the newspaper. Even if they did like my show..."

Harleen could feel him watching her intently, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. "You're as famous as they come," she carried on, determined. "Like, _really famous_. Infamous. Same thing! They even sell t-shirts down at the subway that spell I SURVIVED THE JOKER for all the tourists to get a load of!" Harleen exaggerated where the print would show on her top, had she been wearing one.

He laughed, "they _do_? Well that ain't exactly _accurate_..."

"And you've got figures, and books, and those jack-in-tha' boxes for kids. And ya' got key-rings and plushies--"

Joker choked on his coffee. "Plushies!?"

Harleen nodded eagerly at him, smiling widely that he was engaging in her conversation. Harleen grew excited despite herself. "An' once you've killed me, you can go raid my apartment! You'll find one of your plushies there Mister J! I've set it up next to a lil' toy of Batman, though you don't really match each other, your head is way too big... I won yer at the carnival!" She clapped her hands together -- just the thought of her home, her belongings, bought a warmth to her bones. "Batman's a McDonald's freebie, I got him in a _happy meal_ , would ya' believe it! You shoulda' been in the happy meal!" She giggled.

"I'm not gonna kill you," The Joker replied having listened intently to her enthusiasm, and she couldn't hide the surprise that flitted onto her features. " _Yet_ \-- I mean... How's it coming along boys?!" The Joker called abruptly out to his men, turning himself away from her. Harleen's heart took a dip that his attention was, so quickly, elsewhere. And she watched, with a sudden sadness, as he got up from his seat just as abruptly, abandoned his barely-touched breakfast and left Harleen to finish her food, and stew on her thoughts.  _Was it something she had said?_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hung-over myself when I wrote this -- somehow, I think it helped? The little dance was COMPLETELY for self-satisfaction purposes, but I hope that you enjoyed it none the less. L x


	8. TRAGEDIES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No weddings and a funeral.

Joker stood at the end of the pier with a flower in hand, watching as the sunset glinted off the surface of the river. All hues of blue and purple, he admired the view of high rises, as their little lights began to flicker into existence at the onset of dusk. The sharp and sophisticated cityscape of Gotham City, stretching up and into the sky, was waking to nightfall. Alongside him, stood Miss Quinzel, whose mascara ran dark tracks down her pale, pretty face, and down to her trembling lips. She was blanched, quiet, and too, held a rose to her chest, her small hands shaking around the stem.

Despite himself, Joker found her raw and emotional display quite touching -- though it was indeed altogether _wasted,_ considering the situation at hand. She'd crumbled the moment she'd seen Eric's body rolled into the back of their ride, and had been crying quietly to herself for the whole journey. Which was a shame since he much preferred when she was smiling. Even the offering of the rose hadn't cheered her up, and she'd snatched it from his hand and told him roughly to "just drive."

They'd driven out to the docks, and Joker's remaining men had prepared Eric's body on the decking. The body had been bound in plastic, secured with rope, and attached to bricks to ensure it would sink into the silt. Joker, however, had led Harleen to the end of the pier during their crude embalming, since it wasn't exactly ideal viewing for _a lady._ And all dressed in black, with her hair neatly curled, Harleen was just that.

And she stood alongside him, sniffling and sorry for herself, flinching occasionally at the sound of bone crunching and snapping by saw or mallet. Eric's body, after all, wasn't going to be sunk in one piece. He'd so far failed to mention that part, but Harleen was smart enough, and didn't once turn around to look.

"Everybody dies, Harls," Joker made his attempt at reassuring her over the unpleasantries behind them, and she shot him a dangerous glare.

"Everybody around _you_ , ya' mean?"

Joker shrugged. She wasn't _wrong_ \-- wasn't entirely right either. Since she was the perfect example (the only example, perhaps) of an intended that he hadn't quite managed to kill. Even now, with her looking up at him, mere inches from the lapping water and swirling currents, he just couldn't push her in. And though he was certain (so very certain) this dainty little dame would take little to no effort to expire, Joker couldn't do it. Didn't _want to_ do it. And he refused to think more of it --

"He made a grave mistake and he paid for it," Joker told her simply and unapologetically.

Harleen didn't seem to like his tone, but was unable to lash out with a response. Interrupted by Floyd, Claus and his other men, who had finished brutalising and  bagging the body parts. Eric's funeral procession was about to begin.

They came suited and booted, single file down the pier, five men, each carrying a part of Eric over their shoulder. Some of them had watery eyes, while others, like Claus, remained completely unperturbed by the grim nature of their visit to the riverside.

It wasn't a grand affair. It was somewhat gory, granted -- but it was more of a send-off than most would expect considering their lifestyle choices. It wasn't a commonplace occurance for Joker to have his boys carry meaty sacks of bone and brittle, only to drop them one by one into the open mouth of the river. But it was worth it, since Harleen appeared to appreciate the sentiment over it's savagery.

In turn, each bloodied and bound lump was dropped gently into the ripples beneath their feet. A burial fit for the nature of the man, food for the fish and unlikely to find, and most importantly, _unidentifiable_. This wasn't the first time he'd dumped bodies, but it wasn't often that Joker dumped one of his own as though it were a funeral, with an audience to see the soul off and into the darkness.

"He may have been a pain in the ass at times, but he weren't _half bad_ ," spoke Floyd, who Joker had asked to speak a few words, ( _make it sound professional_!) dropping what looked like a limb, into the river. He'd managed the former, at least.

"No, he was _all bad_ ," Joker laughed -- but stopped when Harleen jabbed his arm roughly.

 ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥  


"Shh!" Harleen glowered at the Joker, despite knowing what the repercussions may be. They were plain as day, as she watched, each indistinguishable lump, as they bobbed and disappeared down into the waves. She'd seen what the Joker's wrath could do, as he'd rained bullets from her stage, and she'd seen him send the slug straight into the skull of one of his own men, without so much of a second thought. While staring out into the watery abyss, Harleen wondered what it would be like when it was her turn. If the Joker would use his hands on her gently, or not at all, and put a bullet into her face too, without an ounce of regret or remorse.

Her throat was tight, her stomach writhing, not with fear -- _not anymore_ \-- but with _guilt_. She understood that Eric had died having slept through her brief and unsuccessful escape. He'd been killed because she had taken advantage of his lackadaisical nature, he had been shot, point blank and she had gotten drunk and danced with his murderer. And worst of all, the very worst, she had _enjoyed it._ She may as well of waltzed over his cadaver, for the all the thought she'd given him when within the Joker's arms. And she paid for it now, with tears and flowers. It was all she had to give.

Of all the questionable things Harleen had done in her life, that had been certainly taken a place up there on the list. And yet she hadn't been able to shake the want for a reprise, for another dance with the Joker through the beams of dusty moonlight, no matter the body count. Harleen gave a small sob, pained by her conscience. How despicable was she, to want such a thing? That even when watching them drop parts of the man she'd briefly known into the depths, her eyes would still linger on back to the clown of carnage at her side.

"He may not have been with us long, but he was good with dealin' arms and doin' lines," masked-man spoke, casting his own corsage off into the calm turn of the tide. "May he rest in pieces -- peace, sorry."

Harleen heard the Joker give another little laugh and she sighed.

"I don't really got much else to say. He was nearin' 50, that's a good age for guys like us." Floyd shrugged, and took a stand down from the edge of the pier.

It was the Joker's turn to give a few words, now that each limb and vital had been cast into the depths. And the Joker adjusted his suit with a certain smugness. Apparently there had been no love lost between the Joker and his deceased henchman. Harleen held her breath for the level of insult that was due to come, of how much ill would be spoken of the dead.

And Harleen stared at the Joker, whose bright eyes bore into her own, a small and confident smile crinkling his sharp and aggressive features. It was though he revelled in making her writhe, and writhe she did under his intense and unwavering gaze. _This was all too surreal._ Harleen felt out of body, and out of mind.

"Unfortunately for our dear boy Eric, he almost lost something of great value to me--"

Was he referencing _her_? Was she of great value? From the way the Joker stared, Harleen was certain. No one had considered her of much value _at all._ It was with wicked irony, it had come to her like this.

"And I reacted accordingly. Let that be a lesson."

Was he still talking to her? The men shuffled at his warning, nodding, murmuring. Harleen couldn't tear her eyes away.

"He would have let you go little _Harley Quinn_ , and I can't have _that_. Accidents happen, but I can't just let you go-- You understand, don't you?"

Was the Joker justifying his murder, solely for her? The guilt crept up to her lungs and was suffocating. She _understood._ All too well, she understood.

"You're mine, whether you like it or not, and anyone else who sleeps on the job gets a bullet in their brain just like Eric here."

 _You're mine._ The way he said it, with an undeniable determination. Was it guilt that had her muscles tensing, her fists closing, her jaw tightening?

"If you so decide to have another little escapade of yours, think of this, think of Eric, and think of who else might end up taking a knife to the throat for the sake of your _spontaneous adventures_."

Her breath caught in her mouth, and Harleen felt his cronies eyes upon her, ever more uncomfortable. The Joker wasn't subtle in his threat, and smiled through many teeth with a grim satisfaction.

The dark of night descended upon the group, stood as silhouettes at the end of the long and crooked pier. Despite the twinkling stars in the sky, and the quiet quell of the river, Harleen was filled with an absolute dread. A dread she'd come to know, come to expect, come to almost _want_ in the smallest and worst of ways. And Harleen nodded carefully at his words, torn. There wasn't going to be a way out of this, unless the Batman was to come barging through and pull her from the Joker's hold. Or the more likely option, that her only way to freedom was in the back of a hearse. Or maybe it would come to her, just like Eric's. And she turned away from the Joker, and threw her rose over the side, muttering a tiny and whispered, "amen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the size of this chapter-- a few long island iced teas later and here we are. L x


	9. THE HIGH LIFE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

Harleen was armed with a mallet and a screwdriver, and she too, had now been at the safe and trying to crack it. It had been days since their drunken antics, days since the funeral, and there had been no sign since of a re-occurrence on both parts. It was _all work and no play_ , as the Joker grew more and more frustrated with the uncrackable crate. Harleen drew a sleeve across her forehead, sweltering in the heat that beamed through the high windows of the warehouse.

If she was going to be _staying_ , she may as well be useful, and after further decorating her little corner of the building, had set her sights on the useless, irretrievable loot. Keeping busy was Harleen’s way of avoiding despair, and though she cried into her rough mattress every night before she slept, she faced each new day with a desperate bravery. The Joker appeared pleased with her acceptance and involvement, but currently glared from beneath the shade of a ridiculous sun hat, staring down with impatience at the task at hand.

Unlike his men, who had been back and forth with many attempts on opening the safe, the Joker instead, had not lifted a single pale finger. One harsh kick against the metal, followed by slurs, swears and a tantrum did **not** count. He slammed a cold bottle of Pepsi upon the safe instead, an ungracious offering to Harleen Quinzel.

“Thanks,” she leant back to take a sip, parched by the heat. And squinting through the sunlight, scoffed at the brightly coloured swim shorts, the mismatched Hawaiian shirt and stupid floral hat that the Joker dressed in. He may have been a criminal, but this was a crime all of it’s own. There was simply _no excuse_ for the odd coloured socks-and-sandals fiasco he was currently sporting. It was undeniable now, the man was absolutely _insane_.

There was, however, something endearing about the Joker dressed up like a divorced father of five, that Harleen couldn’t help but smile up at him from her seat before the safe. Despite the red split of a smile, a bone-white face, and the vibrant emerald hair, that was indeed, exactly how he looked. And there was something Harleen found comforting, something _cute_ , about his image. Regardless of all that had been said and done between them, her fear of him, glaring or not, was waning thin as the days passed. It was hard, after all, to cower before a man in sandals.

“Fuck _this_ ,” The Joker hissed agitated by both the heat and his own impatience, and charged off and away from her, shoes _clack-clack-clack_ ing as he stormed off in a huff. Harleen laughed, and turned back to her work, trying to chisel away at the elaborate and advanced locking devise.

There was a burning curiosity as she wiggled the screwdriver, tapping the end with the mallet. Carefully, somewhat precisely. A little excitement at the prospect of goodies inside. She’d cracked a few locks in her youth with bobby pins (granted, mostly her own home when she’d forgotten her keys after school) and there was something thrilling about this blatant theft she couldn’t deny. _What was inside? Who had the Joker stolen it from?_ She imagined all manner of handguns, of ammo boxes, _money_. Lots of money. There was an odd kind of glamour to the Joker’s work that was surprisingly, undeniably _alluring_. The glamour of her life, before, had been different – it had been false and acted. But this, with her hands working till they ached, was very real. The stolen goods, whatever they were, were real, and the _thrill_ was just as real too.

Her breath hitched in her chest as the screwdriver slipped and clicked against the inner bolt, and Harleen steadily inched the bar aside until the lock was opened. She swelled with pride to know she’d done it. “Mister J!” she called out, eyes wide and eager. “I got it open!” But before she could pry the safe, and rummage through it’s contents, a low rumbling pulled her away. The sound of a struggling, whining engine. Tires crunching through the layers of dust. A horn blared, a high and irritating honking.

“MOVE IT OR _LOSE IT_!” yelled The Joker, from the cramped seat inside a one-man forklift. He was wild eyed, wildly dressed, knees up to his chin as he urged the machine onward, a manic glee spread across his features. Harleen had to throw herself aside to avoid an instant and unpleasant impaling. _What the fuck was he doin’?!_

And Harleen turned in enough time to watch the safe crushed and mangled against the wall by the incoming vehicle. Metal tearing metal, screeching and scraping along the concrete. The Joker bloodied his nose upon impact with the wheel of his ride. His legs and arms curled up and inward like a swatted spider. Money had burst out of the safe, and floated gently like feathers around them. The rest of the loot was scattered and pouring from the sharp and shattered metal.

Harleen hurried to the Joker’s side, and helped him to untangle himself from the wreckage. He hooked an arm about her neck, and smiled with bloody nose and teeth at her, as she pulled him from the tight and tattered carriage. “See what I did there, Harls?” he laughed, opening his free hand to grasp limply at the falling dollars. “If you need something done, you got to do it yourself!” Harleen’s brow furrowed at his words, but just hadn’t the heart to tell him the safe had already been opened. Opened by _her_.

“That was real clever of you Mister J–” she replied, a little lackluster. But the Joker was too distracted to note the sarcasm in her tone. And slamming his stupid, sweaty brimmed hat upon her head, hurried over to his open prize. Prized wide open. Harleen sighed a lengthy sigh, and joined him by the collision.

♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

Joker wasn’t as interested in the scattered money as he knew what else resided in the safe, and clawing through the jagged holes, pulled out four hefty stacks of notes, two solid, heavy glowing gold bars, a handful of small and sparkling diamonds, and last but not least, the _creme de la creme_ , a ruby the size of his fist. Harleen gasped at his side, eyes large and lustful at the impressive gathering of wealth. One of The Penguin’s more generous reserves.

“Well, _damn_ ,” she whispered, and she inched closer, their shoulders bumped and he turned to her quickly, a smile from ear to ear.

There was a great deal of garish gore and grievances in Joker’s lifestyle, that were lavishly rewarded with exceptional gain. He could see from her expression, the way she stared unblinking at the ruby, that the misery of the previous week was far from her mind in this moment. And the glint from the jewel caught in her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, and Joker handed her the precious gem for a better view.

“It is,” he said, just as quietly – and wasn’t quite sure whether he was referencing to the ruby in the palm of her hand, or the delicate face that was admiring it. She was oblivious to his gaze, and felt as though he was looking at her for the very first time. She was just as much a dazzling dream, under his hat and glowing, as she had been on stage and lit up like a fairy in the night.

“Well since you’ve come into some cash–” she started, with the same energy and enthusiasm she’d shown him the time they’d shared breakfast, “I’ve got an idea!”

She thrust the ruby back into his hands, and hurried off towards Floyd, who was lounging on a scrapped sofa, flipping through colourful cartoons. Joker watched with a curiousness, her bubbly behaviour and animated expressions, as erratic and jovial as the television program behind her. “I need to borrow your phone!” He knew there was a creeping fondness for her growing in the pit of his heart. Something he needed to squash before it’s inevitable escalation.  

And she skipped back, phone in hand, grinning broadly and shuffled up next to him, offering Joker full view of the screen.

ｗｗｗ.ｇｏｔｈａｍｃｉｔｙｍａｌｌ.ｃｏｍ

She typed with long, gold fingernails, a _tup tup tupp_ ing of the screen as she hurriedly and excitedly searched for brands upon brands of brilliant suits, shiny shoes, and sparkling accessories. She’d clearly had a lot of practice. “You need some new clothes,” she told him, matter of factly, eyeing him over for size before adding item after item into the virtual basket.

He laughed, slightly offended, but mostly bemused by her statement, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?!”

His Harley Quinn scoffed, and she pointed to the hat upon her head, rolling her eyes “Quit jokin’ around would ya’”

For once in his life, he hadn’t actually been joking. But the fine suits, nice pants and big bold belt buckles caught his eye, and he too was suddenly also engrossed in the online shopping. Pointing to the clothing that most caught his eye. She was annoying, _yes_ , and far too emotional for his refined tastes. But from her picks for his wardrobe, she certainly understood _style_ and what it took to make a statement. He’d seen that from her at least. There were a few things to appreciate about Miss Quinzel. He could appreciate _quite a bit_ , in fact.

Once Joker had finally got the hang of working the website, they both moved to sit at his tiny wooden table, him phone in hand, and Harleen, a cigarette propped up in her mouth, feet up and relaxed, counting what Joker was willing and waiting to spend. The final purchase he made however, while Harleen was distracted, wasn’t a purchase he had made for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, something short, but sweet. I've been tied between work and other projects of late. Hope you're all still liking this bumpy ride. Hopefully it's not as bumpy as the ride J took in his forklift! L x


	10. SHOWERED WITH GIFTS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A jester of goodwill.

It was the second time Harleen had been ushered out of the warehouse, accompanied by the Joker, who was adamant in telling her she needed a breath of fresh air, save she goes crazy (his words, not hers.) The Joker had a lot of experience with creeping cabin fever, she supposed. Not to mention _a whole lotta_ experience with crazy. And though hesitant at first – their last trip having ended with dumping a body – the Joker’s jovial and encouraging tone, the whispered promise of a gift, a gift she’d _like_ , had her trotting along with merriment to his car.

It was nice to be outside, in the cool night air, the final glimpse of the sunset having bled the sky mauve. To hear the sound of the waves gently lapping, and in the distance, heard the buzz of a waking city. Somewhere, out there, amongst the hustle and bustle of urban life, was Peyton Riley, parading upon a pedestal that had been destined for Harleen Quinzel. She gave a lengthy sigh and watched the darkening horizon.

“Ready to head out kid?”

The Joker was dressed to impress for their evening, Harleen noticed with a smile, and he pulled her, distractedly, from her pondering. Having eagerly, ecstatically arranged and contemplated outfit after outfit, he had sought Harleen’s approval. Her online shopping had proved to be a hit with the clown prince, and he had picked from the many, many packages, a velour, purple tracksuit. Holographic, thick-tongued sneakers, and a single gold chain that hung at his stark chest.

“You look good,” she’d said, offering words of encouragement after every change and alteration of costume. Harleen had never seen the Joker beam wider. And he did, in fact, look _good_. She shook her head of any more thoughts of _that._

Claus was sat waiting for them at the wheel of a scratched and dented porshe. The giant albino, dressed for his role as chauffeur (hat included) was cramped up in the tiny chair, and had to inch further forward still, to allow room for the Joker’s gangly legs. This time, the Joker decided to join Harleen in the back of the car, despite the little room they had. The way they all squeezed inside, it felt more like a clown car than that of a convertible.

A sudden nervousness crept over Harleen, of them sharing a more intimate space together. Despite him not having threatened her for a while, the Joker was still daunting, _deadly_ , and up close, was even more so. The brilliance of his smile was as dangerous as his savage nature and as much as he was mad, he was equally as magnetising. Harleen shifted in her seat, hands at her knees and fumbling.

She caught herself, many a time, simply staring at the Joker, unawares as he watched from tinted windows, the steep towers and high rises that grew around them as they cruised towards the city. He was expressionless, eyes flitting the streets, the many faces and colours, deep in thought. _What was he thinking about?_ As maniacal as he was, had been, Harleen couldn’t see it in him then. What could possibly be going on in that head of his? Did she dare to wonder?

“There –” The Joker jammed his finger to the glass as they slowed in the busy traffic, so suddenly that it startled Harleen, and she squinted out towards what had grabbed his attention, his smile still wavering in the corner of her eyeline.

Clearly, Harleen had been too busy studying him to notice where they’d been headed, and recognised the location instantly. Theatre upon theatre, show upon show. Flurries of couples arm in arm wandered up and down the strip, ready for their night of entertainment. The white and red strobes burned brilliantly against the night, hoping to attract eager eyes. Smiles white, people dressed in their best, chattering silently, animatedly, happily, enjoying all that the Gotham streets had to offer them. And there – installed in bulbs above the entrance of a grand old building was a name that turned Harleen’s stomach over.  
Peyton Riley stars in…

 _Her show_. Peyton Riley starring in _her_ show. Whatever small elation Harleen had felt, for being out of the warehouse and onto the night, shattered. It stung. Her eyes stung. And she swallowed hard, hands trembling in her lap. “Why are you showing me this?” her voice was far smaller and more wavering than she’d hoped and Harleen glared to keep back the tears that threatened to fall.

The Joker’s grin faltered, and he tilted his head curiously, raising a brow, “are you _crying_?”

“No!” She bought her fists up to her eyes and rubbed them roughly, “I’m _not_!”

The Joker looked to the name up in lights (the _wrong name!_ ) and back to Harleen. “Are you pissed off?”

Well, _obviously!_ She wasn’t brave enough to retort – and feeling vulnerable, mostly hurt, simply turned away to her own window, to watch the passersbys unknowingly walk alongside the Joker’s car and his hostage inside. To watch the world, from the outside looking in, how the city, her show,  those people – none of it, _nobody_ , had altered at all in her absence. Was this another one of the Joker’s statements? “Is this my gift?” she wondered aloud, with a sinking and terrible sadness.

“What?”

She jolted as his fingers found her wrist, and Harleen fidgeted under his unblinking pale gaze. He didn’t look angry at her question, but bewildered perhaps? He laughed and she flinched at the brashness of it. “Of course this isn’t your gift!” he squeezed her arm. “I just thought you'd  wanna see!”

See what exactly? Her life, her dream, stolen by the one person she had competed with constantly? The person who existed only to prove that Harleen Quinzel would never, ever, be good enough. Was he tryin’ to be funny? “I get the feelin’ you don’t take girls out too much do ya Mister J?”

The graze of his hand was pulled away as quickly as it had crept up to her, and the Joker looked suddenly, genuinely, offended. His lips turned downwards, and he grimaced. “I’ll have you know –” he pointed, and pointed, and pointed. “I’ll have you know – they can’t keep their claws off of me!” The Joker squeaked forward to reach the shoulder of his massive driver, both of them so squashed that only the thick leather seat separated the two. “Tell her Claus!”

Surprise, surprise! Claus said nothing.

“Sure,” Harleen’s eyes rolled, and she folded her arms, thoroughly unimpressed. If anyone was to be sitting in this car looking offended – it should be **her** , and not the Joker with his total lack of tact and empathy. “I’m sure they can’t keep away,” she huffed, “when you’re holdin’ ‘em prisoner that is.”

Apparently the Joker had another sight to show Harleen before the night was done and they drove the rest of the journey in awkward silence (save a few offended mutterings from the clown.) And though she still anticipated how the evening would end for her, Harleen refused to look in the Joker’s direction. Instead, she stuck to staring intently out into the darkness, at the bright windows, tail lights and flashing signs. She could feel his eyes upon her, but did not once allow her hurt to overcome, and give him the satisfaction that he had somehow affected her. Harleen chewed at her lip to distract from crying, and sniffled to herself in the far corner of the car.

They drifted further and further from the loud, well lit parts of town, and through the underpasses, along backstreets. Here, the narrow roads were alight with orange and red hues, from small fires, street lights and less savoury attractions. These were far from the types of shows Harleen had offered a budding crowd, and women lingered corners popping gum, waiting patiently in the damp dark for their next client to cruise by flashing cash.

Harleen’s eyebrow raised, and her nose crinkled. Harleen was no prude, but disliked the lack of glamour, the lack of class (lack of gorgeous clothes, jewellery, style) – not to mention the severe lack of hygiene! She hadn’t fucked a pompous director in order to find herself dragged in these parts of town. She hadn’t tapped her feet sore for it, nor sparkled sweetly before a loving crowd, to be bought this side of the city and have it called a gift. She finally turned to the Joker, who was busy on his cell. “Where are we going?” she asked, unable to disguise the frustration in her tone.

He looked up from his game of snake, “my place,” he said plainly.

Harleen choked, “y–you’re place?!”

♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

Claus turned the corner and mounted the curb with a bump, knocking an unexpecting Harleen up from her seat and half into Joker’s lap. Her eyes snapped up to his, flashing both with a fury and alarm, and she yelled out angrily, “watch the road will ya?!” quickly withdrawing her arms from the cushion of his thighs. Joker watched, as surprised as she was, as Harleen threw herself back to other side of the ride. He was sure he’d seen her pale face flush, but it could have just as much been the reflection of the red neons, of all the GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS and XXX HERE. He could tell Harleen was fuming now, and her anger was no less than endearing. Regardless, Joker didn’t have time to tease her further – as his club wound into view from the windscreen.

“Voila!” he told her, clicking his fingers, as they creeped into the tiny carpark out back, a big red flashing smile flickering, buzzing and sparking above the dingy block of dark and crumbling brick. GRIN N BARE IT – or what it should have been, if the ARE didn’t hang awkwardly and unlit below.

“Grin n’ bit?”

He cringed at her reading the damaged sign, and pinched the bridge of his nose with disdain.

“You live here?” Harleen sounded surprised – humoured, in fact.

Joker scoffed. What kind of man did Harleen take him for? Hadn’t he proved, with his fashion, his intellect, his obvious, _undeniable_ charm, that he would live someplace a little more upmarket than a battered nightclub?

“This is where I run a lot of my operations,” Joker told her, as the car came to a halt. “It’s a work in progress. Your gift is inside.”

They each got out of the car – Joker taking Harleen’s arm tightly in his grip, save she decided to make a run for it. He quickly came to realise how his hold on her was absolutely unnecessary. The location itself proved an escape deterant – and instead Harleen inched closer and closer against him, for safety away from the other unpleasant noises and activities unfolding around them. He smiled as she jumped at each angry shout, each sound of a bottle thrown, until she was practically in his arms and buried against his chest.

Unfortunately, the deterant only lasted until they reached the back door, where she suddenly stalled and jerked his arm. “I don’t wanna go inside– please – I don’t wanna go.”

“I can’t drag your present out here Harls,” he reasoned, and tugged her gently. To his disappointment, she started shaking and blubbering. Oh no! _Not again!_

“You’re gonna kill me inside aren’t ya’ this is where you bring people to kill them!? Please – don’t – I don’t wanna die here, please – it smells and it’s ugly, and – and – and–”

“ _Jesus_ , Harls, relax, if I was gonna kill you, you’d know about it.”

It seemed to help somewhat, slightly, and Harleen whimpered, “you mean it?”

“When I kill you, I’ll let you know, I promise,” and he sighed. He just wanted to get her inside, give her the present he’d been excited about ever since he’d got his men to track it down. “Chin up.” Joker prompted her face forward with a finger, lifting her jaw and smiling.

It took a few moments of instructed breathing to get Harleen to enter the building, but eventually Joker won her over. It was that, or a loud bang from somewhere outside, that had her rushing, squealing through the open door. Whatever works! Joker shrugged.

Inside was dimly lit, and difficult to navigate, and Harleen latched onto Joker so tight he was sure she was crushing his ribcage. It wasn’t dark for aesthetic reasons – not at all, he wasn’t Crane – he was simply cheap when it came to responsible things, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the bulbs cleaned, or changed. He probably should have thought of that before bringing her along. Still, it wasn’t as though the nightclub was in any usable state – acting currently as hang out for him and his men, both for downtime and work time. He hadn’t had the money (until Penguin’s safe) to get it off the ground and open for business as he wanted.

They made their way to the bar, where a few of Joker’s lackeys loitered, drinking, darts, and drowning their sorrows under the light of old, swinging lamps. It was smoggy inside, of stale cigars and the musty smell of spilt beer. He probably should have got the boys to clean before he’d dragged her this way. But he’d been too eager, too eager to show her what he’d purchased. He hoped she’d overlook the mess and instead see the potential.

He looked down to her pinned to his side, eyes wide and lower lip trembling, she held onto the back of his purple bomber with vice-like fists, as she took in her gloomy surroundings. This was far from what Miss  Quinzel was used to, no doubt and as she surveyed her setting, his men surveyed them back. Joker noted the confusion, the shock in their expressions, to see Joker accompanied by a woman, wrapped so tight around his waist he was finding it a little hard to breathe.

“Loosen up a little–” he told her, laughing lightly as he tried to pry her tiny hands apart. Not in front of the boys.

They walked into the main area, the large, open floor plan front of house, guiding Harleen to where her present was situated, beside the large marble bar, well stocked with all manner of beverages. It stood around 5’ tall, dark and quiet, round-edged and ominous beneath reams and reams of multicoloured ribbon, tied off with one big red bow.

“Go on, open it!”

Predictably, Harleen was hesitant, and lingered by the object, flicking the tag that read in bold, black scrawl **Harley Quinn, let’s call this your audition, J ♥** She looked back at him, gold fingernails grazing the edges of the label. And then to the red bow, pulling loose the knot that held it all together. She winced, as though expecting it to go BANG – and when it didn’t, began work on the individual ribbons. Having revealed only a small portion of the mysterious present, it was though a coin had dropped, and after seeing the glass front, Harleen began tearing at the elaborate wrapping with some haste.

She stripped from the top and centre, until a vintage jukebox was revealed to the room, and Joker, leant casually at his bar, noticed her eyes widen and a small, fleeting moment of glee flashed across her soft face.

“There’s some good tracks on this one Harls! Picked it out myself,” Joker told her proudly, and clicked obnoxiously at the thug-playing-barman. “Give the girl some money would ya’?!”

A handful of pocket change was thrust across the bar, and Harleen hurried to pick it up. She struggled, for an adorable moment, to pick the coins from the surface, and cursed quietly to herself and her plastic nails. With an open palm she brushed the shrapnel into her hand, and turned back to her jukebox excitedly. She was quick to plug it in, and immediately the lights lit up her ecstatic expression. Green, and red and white and humming, it thrummed to life and drew attention from all eyes in the room. Much like it’s new owner. And Harleen clapped her hands, tiny hops on the spot, “it’s amazin’ Mista’ J,” she squeaked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I only hope it's worth it. Wasn't supposed to be as sickly as this originally, but I'm a sucker! Apologies! L x


	11. THE AUDITIONS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories are made of this.

The dingy club sprung to life the moment Harleen placed the first few coins into the jukebox machine, and though her eyes were fixed upon the bright light-up musical box before her, she could feel their stares from across the room. But it didn’t matter. The gift had wilted away her fears from before, and Harleen selected the first song that caught her eye, pushing buttons excitedly. Something from none other than Dean Martin. _Push_ . Harleen had noted how all the songs were either big band or musical based and for a jukebox it had a very unique selection of tunes. She couldn’t help but wonder if this had been a deliberate choice on the Joker’s part. So he was psychotic -- but _thoughtful_ . She shrugged her thoughts aside, the happiest she’d been in weeks, or had it been _months_ ? This wasn’t topping the moment she’d been showered with flowers upon her stage, but it was certainly _up there_. No one had ever given her a present like this, one that matched her personality -- one that had clearly been so carefully considered. With a hand pressed at her mouth -- the music, the smooth voice crackling from the speakers -- Harleen hid a wavering smile.

“You like it?” The Joker bumped her shoulder roughly and a few coins tinkled onto the hardwood dancefloor.

“I _love_ it --” Harleen whispered, confused -- _flattered_ \-- overwhelmed. What did all of this mean? The Joker she knew, from the television and the newspapers, was a chaos causing clown, inexplicably cold, callous and cruel. Whose laugh was high and manic, smile wide and wicked. And sure, she’d been introduced to _that side_ of The Joker the moment he’d chosen to target her. But what was this -- _buttering up?_ ** _Harley Quinn, let’s call this your audition, J ♥_** “Audition for _what_?” she asked him eyes squinting as she held the tag and tapped it. As much as Harleen appreciated the gesture (truly) what was his intention? For a heart fluttering moment -- she had some idea.

A thin finger pulled at the loose collar of his t-shirt, to scratch at his jutting collarbone. “I’m glad you asked,” he didn’t look glad - he looked _nervous_. “I’ve got a proposition for you Miss Quinn.” The Joker took one of the last remaining coins from her palm and changed the song (but not the artist.) Harleen’s heart stammered as The Joker then took her arm and pulled her towards an old and broken booth to the side.

“A proposition f-for _me_?!” her voice high and hitched with surprise.

She stared unblinking at his face, at how close The Joker stood. With the gentle strumming of guitars -- the silky voice that sounded from the jukebox -- did she lean in further? Her heart beat aggressively within her chest. Was this going where it felt like it was? She’d spent some of her late teens, much longer ago than she’d ever admit, squished into booths and kissed with fervour. The Joker’s hot breath was at her ear as he weaved her in against the table. She didn’t have time to think much of what was happening, how or why. Just that it _was_ and that she didn’t mind. She didn’t even mind the thick layer of dust on the table, the sticky patches of spilt alcohol. The men lingering in the shadows of their dark and deteriorated backdrop. She reached for the zipper of his purple tracksuit, and opened her mouth a little for him, an invitation. The way she knew best to handle auditions.

It was then, that she was tossed unceremoniously into the seat opposite the Joker, and any heady thoughts were jolted from her mind. _Oh!_ Worst of all, the Joker hadn’t even _noticed_ . And he slid into his seat completely unperturbed. “Since you’re going to be with us for a while, kid,” he started, hands clasped, grin wide -- completely _oblivious_ as he sat conducting his interview. “I figured I could use your help.”

Harleen sank back into the seat, this hadn’t been what she was expecting. Not at all. “What _kind_ of help?” What could The Joker want with budding actress Harleen Quinzel? What could she possibly offer him that he didn’t already have, and couldn’t already _steal_ ? He’d stolen her shot from her, what else could she do for him _now_ ? Especially since he wasn’t interested -- or even _realised_ \-- what else she was good to offer. _Rude!_

“Well, there’s a few things,” his grin turned into a sheepish smile. “But before you cry, yell or scream again could I just --”

“Hey!” How dare he describe her _so accurately!_

The Joker raised his hand to silence her protest and Harleen slumped even further into the booth, sullen, arms folded tight against her chest.

“I like what you’ve been doing with the warehouse,” he said, eyes wandering out towards the bar and beyond, avoiding her glare. “And I was wondering, _just an idea_ , how you’d feel about helping us get this placed spruced up and open for business?” He shrugged it off. “You’ll be rewarded, of course --”

“Freedom?” it was the first word out of Harleen’s mouth, and a pang of guilt twanged her heart as the Joker’s smile faltered.

“Not _that_ ,” he said, and it took a moment but his grin returned. _False_ . Leaning over the table between them, the Joker pressed the tip of his finger to her nose. “I’ve got better plans in mind for _you_.”

The nightclub was derelict. Bought on the cheap and left to rot. Harleen could see where the Joker had attempted to add his flair and had failed. There were old, creepy vintage circus posters now peeling from the walls, all smudged and stained by smoke. All manner of odd toys, props and costumes were either pinned to the wall, or dotted amongst the shelves and spaces, peeking out from behind bottles and glasses. The ceilings were low but the potential was high. And with some elbow grease, Harleen could definitely see this place working out for the Joker. It was a small, inclusive and intimate setting, all it needed was a fresh lick of style. The jukebox alone had already helped with the atmosphere tenfold.

“Do I even have a choice?”

 

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Good, good, _good_ , good, **good** question. Did she have a choice? That she did _not_ . “I already told you,” he chuckled, propped up on his bony arms. “I’m not letting you go.” Though he had in a way, _his way_ , given her a choice. Live out as his hostage, miserable and moping, or move on and make something of herself among him and his men. “Well, what d’ya say Harls?” He’d never once extended a hand like this and he wondered, briefly, why she wasn’t happier about it. It surprised even Joker how long she’d lasted in his company thus far, with her constant mood swings, _crying,_ and challenging his patience. There was just something about Harleen Quinzel that he wanted to keep, despite all of her misgivings.

“Fine.”

She wasn’t fine, that was certain. Her arms crossed, her legs crossed, her eyes cast downward, not even a hint of a _smile_ . Joker might not be an expert on women (he’d never tell _her_ that) but he wasn’t stupid. His harlequin was _pissed_ indeed. He had hoped the jukebox would have quelled the attitude. Apparently _not!_ “Come on, Harls, I thought you’d _want_ to add some flavour to the place?”

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” she laughed now, loudly, drawing attention from his guys to their booth, and Harleen, just as loudly, announced, “ya’ know what? Ever since I was little, all I could ever dream about - all I ever _wanted_ , was to wind up in this _dump_ , as Mista’ J’s _slave_ ! HA _HA_ HA!”

 _Jesus!_ Joker raised his hands, laughing along awkwardly, “hey, hey, _HEY!_ Let’s not give ‘em t _he wrong impression_ here --” he could see his lackeys, shaking their heads, hear them clicking their tongues. What must they think of him?! “ Now, that’s _not_ what I said!”

“Sure it ain’t,” she huffed, “kinda convenient ain’t it, how you stole me away and now want me _clean_ \-- do ya’ get your _guy_ prisoners doin’ this I wonder?!”

“I don’t _have_ any guy prisoners! What are you -- wait -- _no_ \--” He wasn’t going to go there. Nope. _No way._ That hadn’t been what he’d meant. At _all_ . He’d wanted to help her feel part of the show, but what was the point? He’d hoped she’d been flattered by it -- not offended! With the way her eyes sparkled when she’d seen the ruby. The way they’d glistened at the sight of the jukebox. Why did she have to be so _difficult_? “I thought you’d want to throw in your piece!” he exclaimed, confused, annoyed, bewildered.

“What I want is to --”

Splayed hands slammed against their table, knocking both Joker and Harleen back from their awkward confrontation. And Floyd stood before them, mask-raised and perched upon his head to reveal the sweating, black haired, black-eyed man beneath. “Jay,” he heaved, rasping for breath. “Things are _bad_ , man. I came as quick as I could.”

Joker frowned. What _now?_ With a scorned woman opposite, and a frantic thug at his side, what _else_ could possibly be going wrong for him? “Hit me,” he said, the lack of enthusiasm offered was award-winning.

“It’s Cobblepot,” Floyd replied, “he wants you fuckin’ _dead_ man -- _dead_ dead -- he’s put some seriously pretty price on your head for what you’ve taken. Fuck, even _I_ was tempted boss,” he raised his hands, “just sayin’, no offence, ya’ know I love ya’.”

Joker caught Harleen’s expression, fright had replaced her frustration, and her lip trembled, looking back from Floyd to Joker, Joker to Floyd. He wanted to tell her, _kid, don’t worry, everyone wants to kill me, all of the time_ , but he didn’t think somehow, it would help calm her nerves. Joker sighed, pulling hands through his hair and gripping tight on the ends. Damn Oswald and his bottomless bank account. All of Gotham’s finest fuck-ups would be fighting for him now and like he had _time_ for that!

“Everyone’s talkin’ about it, everyone’s _interested_ , hell, Jay you gotta _lotta_ enemies, an’ half of ‘em are broke ass bitches too!”

Well, this had gone _swimmingly_. “Wonderful!” Joker clapped his hands and stood abruptly. Both Harleen and Floyd flinched. “Take her to get an icecream or somethin’ I’ll have to speak to the boys,” and he clicked his fingers, dismissing them both.

Before Floyd could take Harleen’s arm and lead her from the club, Joker grabbed her instead and growled at them both. “You lose her Floyd, I kill you.” His eyes met with Harleen’s, who flitted his features fearfully. “You _let him_ lose you, I kill him. We good?” She nodded frantically, and slipped from his grip. He let her go. Something knotted in his stomach to watch them leave together, but he couldn’t have her sitting pretty here, not _now_.

It had been a while since Joker had dabbled in any kind of turf war in the city -- he had, for a time, focused his efforts on garnering solely the attention of the Batman instead. That bothering other kingpins (who was he kidding, there was only one _king_ ) only complicated matters between himself and the big, black Bat. That he’d stepped aside for the most part, causing chaos in Gotham city for chaos’ sake, over reigning in his criminal empire. It _showed_. Just looking at his torn-up club, it showed. At his near-on empty warehouse -- his bare reserves and battered wardrobe. Perhaps going head to head with Penguin was the next big thing Joker needed, to reinstate himself as top dog. If the city had fallen for his Harley Quinn over the clown prince himself, he really had let himself go… Maybe she hadn’t been solely to blame for their lack of interest… Well, fuck.

Addressing the men came with mixed reviews. Some were eager and antsy to get back to the streets and squash the nearing competition. Others sighed and complained. They’d grown so complacent, so _cocky_ . How had this happened right under his nose? The smaller circle were still good-as-gold, but the rest? _Useless._ He wasn’t going to die by Penguin’s hand ( _good joke!_ ) or any of the other numbskulls tempted by the hefty bounty. Joker was clear that their corpses would litter the streets if they’d be stupid enough, that he’d climb their cadavers all the way to the top, where only _one_ belonged. Any guesses?

Plans took hours to discuss and Joker didn’t leave Grin N’ Bare It until the early hours of the morning, where his car and Claus waited patiently outside for him. Harleen had been placed in the back seat, and was shivering in her sleep against the cold leather. The night had been ruined, and not just for _her_. Clambering in himself, Harleen was quick to latch onto whatever was warmest -- and in her sleeping state took up all but the tiniest sliver of space, where Joker was seated, crushed up at the window. Her head nuzzled his shoulder, and she snored loudly in his ear. Just when he’d been certain she couldn’t get any more annoying, she never ceased to disappoint. But as disgruntled as Joker was, he saw the humour in it.

“Get us home,” he told Claus quietly, and the ignition started and sped them into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter took a while - a lot has been going on irl. Hope you guys are still enjoying the journey! This chapter was more spontaneous, so I hope it reads okay. I really enjoyed writing this part. And for those of you interested, or those of you who have tumblrs, if you'd like to find me on there also -- it's madluv.tumblr.com. Come and say hi! :) L x


	12. READY FOR THE SHOOT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practice makes perfect.

Work needed to be done, not just back at the club, but all over. Even the warehouse was no longer serving as Harley Quinn’s empty prison and instead had become a hub of criminal activity overnight. There were men counting money, cleaning guns or clearing way for crates of weapons, explosives, _you name it, J bought it!_ Some were masked, some costumed, and some were simply not. It had been a long time since Joker had seen his men work like this. Just how long exactly had he been set on the Bat? How long had it been since he’d had his men do much of anything save for drive him around or collect his laundry? He couldn’t tell. Despite Joker’s neglect of them, they all came running. One drop of a text (and a lot of emojis) had them hammering on the tin shutters, ready for whatever Joker had in mind for them, no matter the hour.

**heard sum BAD NEWS!!!!! :^o**

**warehouse block17 URGENT!!!!!!  :^( :’^( >:^(**

**J**

Joker had immediately set out with positive action upon leaving Grin N Bare It, and though tired, dark rings beneath his eyes, had worked long through the night alongside his recently gathered posse. He needed to start pulling taut on the strings of his operations, if they were to go head to head with Gotham’s wealthiest madman. And that was exactly what he was going to do. The Penguin may be stacked with cash, but he was simply no competition for the clown. That, he’d make certain. Joker may have gone a little overboard on the _BANGERS!_ but he was sure to put them to good use. Oswald was gonna get it so hard, his frail, flaking granny Cobblepot sippin’ tea all the way back in England was gonna hear him **POP!**

Crates upon crates of dynamite were being dragged into storage by disgruntled goons dressed like big, fuzzy disney icons. They weren’t all too impressed with their exceptionally hot and heavy work (no thanks to Joker, who had crashed the forklift) but they didn’t complain too loudly in his presence. It wasn’t for _him_ that they hushed their voices though, but for Quinn, who still snored soundly on her mattress, blanket at her ankles and curled up like a kitten.

She’d woken up once yelling, “would'ya keep yer noise _down_ ?!” And Joker had protested that it was 11am (a more than reasonable time to be awake!) to which he got an angry, snapping and _snarling_ response, “so _what_ ?!” Since when did Harley get off telling him what to do? Had she forgotten who the hell he was?! Regardless, they softened their steps and lowered their voices, save she wake up and scream at them some more. He admired her gall, he’d give her _that_.

A hot afternoon had turned the warehouse into a _greenhouse_ – and the climbing heat had eventually woken Harley naturally. Must be _exhausting_ , after all. Being chauffeured around, offered gifts, taken to new and exciting places… What a terribly hard life his harlequin led. And he watched, a tad jealous, as Floyd brought to her some breakfast and a steaming cup of coffee. He was the prince here, was he not? Where was his royal treatment? Though Joker said nothing, save she fly off the handle. _Again._

“I’ve got something for you to do today,” he told her sternly, approaching the little blonde who sat cross-legged at her bed, a bowl balanced precariously in her lap. She looked up from her food, mouth slack, cheerios slipping back into the milk off the end of her spoon.

“”Want me to dust ya’ shelves, Mister J?!”

Was she still mad about yesterday?! And people said _he_ held onto grudges. _Christ!_ “No -- I’ve got something _else_ we can do. I gotta prepare you, kid, if we’re gonna have Penguin and his army knocking at our door.”

Harley frowned, unconvinced.

“If you think _I’m_ bad, you’re not gonna want Cobblepot getting a hold of you.” He jutted a finger down at her, jaw tightened at the briefest thought of _that._ Oswald _loved_ women, in the way that Joker loved his cars, his sneakers and loved his collectables. Sometimes they got damaged, sometimes they broke, and sometimes they were smashed beyond any saveable state. Cobblepot would undoubtedly have that certain kind of love for _Joker’s_ Harley Quinn too. Over his, her and _everyone’s_ dead body was that ever, _ever_ going to happen!

“Are you threatenin’ me?” she asked thickly through a mouthful of cereal.

 _Woman!_ “ **No!** ” Hell, maybe _he would_ just hand her over to the Penguin -- it’d certainly teach her some manners. He was sure she’d come running back to him crying, apologising. She’d show some respect for The Joker then, wouldn’t she? She’d be grateful then, of how he’d cared for her. Of how he had fed and clothed and accompanied her. But his anger could not linger at that level, and the thought of her in the arms of Oswald made him nauseous. His stomach twisted at a single straying thought of it. Was he going soft? Surely not. Then what was _wrong_ with him?

“ _Alright_ , don’t bite my head off, what do yer want me to do?”

He’d let her wash and get changed (that took _two_ long hours!) brush her teeth and comb her hair. There was no rushing her, as Harley seemed to draw out every task with deliberate pace. Maybe it wasn’t deliberate -- Joker had never been known for his _patience_. But he sat waiting, humming, whistling, fidgeting for her at the large garage doors, that opened out to a view of the cityscape beyond the water. His men got ready for the activity also, having set up something of an assault course, dragged pallets, driftwood and rusty old barrels up onto the pavement. They all donned the same matching white coats, codpieces secured, much to their chagrin. They’d regret it if they didn’t have ‘em -- he’d told them only once.

 

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It was still pleasantly warm in the time Harleen came to join the party, held just outside the warehouse, and her sudden reappearance had a grin split the Joker's features in two. She squinted through the sunlight at his blazen, white face, and too, smiled briefly back at him. She had been under the impression that they were headed back to the club, and was surprised to see the crude assault course built-up before her. Unlike a lot of the Joker’s ideas, this one, surprisingly, didn’t fill her with dread, and she laughed at the lackey’s who lingered by their makeshift creation. “For me?” she said, a delicate hand against a little chest, “oh, you shouldn’t have!” No -- really, you _shouldn’t_. But before she could turn around and back into the shade, the Joker was upon her beaming broadly.

“How about a little game, Harls?”

He hoisted, without prior warning, a fat, heavy pistol to her forehead, his face all teeth and gnashing. Harleen froze up where she stood, her skin prickled, she no longer felt the warmth of the sun. Was today the day -- the day he had _promised her_ ? Perhaps Harleen had pushed her luck too far this time -- she had grown stupid and reckless. _She’d always been reckless!_ Was it much of a surprise anymore that she stood at barrel end of a gun? Before her brain could even process the thought of _the end_ , the final curtain -- The Joker flipped the pistol, and turned it on it’s head, the barrel nestled in his palm and offering her the grip of the weapon.

“Go on, take it.” He didn’t look as sinister, now that the pistol was aimed in the opposite direction, and timidly Harleen wound her hand about the gun. Their fingers touched for all but a moment, and both recoiled quickly from the contact as though it _burned._

The Joker cleared his throat and turned away from her, gesturing broadly at his men dotted across the course. “You know what to do boys!” And Harleen watched as they came to life -- began running up and down, left and right, amongst the assorted scrap they’d assembled. They were a living-breathing giant version of a carnival stall, of targets darting to and fro. And it dawned on her then, why she was holding the gun. Where she’d normally point her plastic pistol and squirt water at their chests, this wasn’t water she’d be firing their way. _Yeesh!_

“I don’t wanna --”

“Just pull the trigger!” The Joker cut her off quickly, clearly having anticipated this reaction from her. It wasn’t predictability, just plain _common sense_.

And Harleen couldn’t do it. She raised the gun with shaking hands, stared down the barrel of the gun at the goons below, all rushing away from the point of the pistol. She couldn’t do it. Her eyes wavered, wet with tears. They didn’t even seem frightened at the prospect of her pulling the trigger. The Joker’s hand was at her waist and holding her place. “I _can’t --_ ” she squeaked. “Don’t make me do this --”

“Trust me!” His palm didn’t linger at her hip though, and trailed up to the gun, where he steadied her trembling arms, chin hooked at her shoulder. The fluttering touch of his hands left a trail of cold, and his finger flattened against hers. Before she could protest, before she could pull herself from his arms -- before she could even react to what she _knew_ was coming. He held his breath and _squeezed_.

**_C R A C K !_ **

Her breath left her lungs so rapidly, stars scattered her vision and her ears rang with white noise. Harleen hadn’t even the air to sob or make a sound -- but as her sight returned to focus, she looked out with horror at the scene ahead. And there stood the random lackey she’d aimed at, waving with a grin on his face. “Wait -- _what_!?”

“It’s paint.”

And _so it was_ . Red paint smattered the white chest of the man’s overalls. And the Joker prompted her again to steady -- aim -- _fire!_ Green paint, blue paint -- _miss!_ \-- Yellow, pink and orange. Without the Joker’s direction, she was _useless_ , and watching her moving targets stumble and slip in all the scattered paint had her giggling girlishly. The Joker watched with an unusually serious expression, which made Harleen laugh only harder. “I’m doin’ it, _watch_ !” she bleated, having shot -- accidentally -- a goon in the eye, who without goggles howled and flailed. Her laugh was a high and cracking _SCREECH_ at this, and tears wound their way down her face in hysterics.

The men were growing tired, their pace slowing to near enough a stop. They were getting pelted by paint no matter how terrible Harleen’s aim -- and she huffed at their lack of enthusiasm. She had been -- could she believe it -- _having fun_ ! She whined at them weakly, “keep runnin’ I’m just about to _get good_.” But they hadn’t the energy left to give.

“You heard the lady!” hollered the Joker, and she smiled (despite herself) at his backing. “Look alive or it'll be the last time you do!” And Joker pulled another pistol from his jacket and fired himself a shot. Now that _wasn’t paint_ ! The lackey screamed this time, face smeared with paint, knee blown wide open, a red and cavernous hole where bone should’ve been. And as terrible, horrific, _dreadful_ as it was  -- Harleen laughed. _Oh God!_

At the Joker’s command, threat, severe _warning_ , the living target’s found a new lease of life, adrenaline giving them that extra speed and energy to really add to the challenge. “After you,” the Joker said, and Harleen was delighted to see the improvement. Over the wailing cries of his goon, fired again and again into the brightly coloured mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to get this one out of my system and uploaded asap. I loved the idea for this chapter so I was probably a lil' too eager in wanting to get it out!  
> How do you like J's emojis? :^) - I'm usin' these from now on. :^O  
> As always, thank you for reading! L x ( and come say hi at madluv.tumblr.com! )


	13. NIGHTLIFE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city never sleeps.

They’d been back and forth from Grin n’ Bare It for a little over a week and it had remained unsaid whether Harleen had accepted the Joker’s proposal to get the building into better shape or not. Yet, there she was, directing his various henchmen in painting, taking old furniture to scrap, browsing new furniture, choosing from the many patterned rolls of wallpaper, once there and amongst the work, she hadn’t been able to resist adding _her touch_ to the place. She’d thrown on a heavy leather apron (courtesy of J) to protect her velvet skirt and starch white tee, and had taken to delightfully tearing down the many hideous circus and clown posters that had been plastered previously to the walls. She was eager and enthusiastic to rid his club of it’s serious case of _ugly_ \-- all the while, the Joker surveyed her efforts from a distance with a twinkling smile on his face. 

The jukebox was in constant use, and played crisp music to the men busying themselves with decoration, it was it’s own messy musical and Harleen stood back to appreciate the gradual transformations. They’d stripped out the old, tired chairs and cushions, replaced all the dark and dingy wood with sleek and shiny chrome. Velvet, furs and satin upholstered the stools and booths, all reds and greens and golds. Zebra-print wallpaper took up half of the walls, and covered completely the nicotine-stained paint of before. Harleen had been somewhat surprised at how much the Joker wanted, and was excited for this change. She figured, from his appearance prior to her intervention -- and from the warehouse and then the club -- that he simply didn’t care much about his image. It was the Joker after all, the man more often seen covered in soot, clothes torn, singed or splattered with blood and shaking with rage, hysterics -- or _both_. Harleen assumed it didn’t really matter how he presented himself, he was still the criminal king of Gotham city regardless of how he dressed or decorated. That said, it was even stranger, _surreal_ for Harleen to witness this very same man mulling over colour schemes and carpet samples perched upon a brand-spanking-new, pink chaise lounge. 

“Harley!” The Joker’s sharp voice snapped Harleen from her senses and she realised he must have caught her staring at him. _Again_. “Don’t just stand there, you’re making the joint look _untidy_ ,” he laughed at his own joke. “Come over here and sit with me!” 

Harleen couldn’t help but smile at the Joker patting insistently at the seat beside him, and obeyed his request without question, though leaving a little safe space between the two of them, _just in case_. The Joker didn’t seem to care (or even _notice_ ) either way, and pulled an old, fraying purple gym bag from underneath, dumping it casually into her lap. Harleen jolted at the weight of it hitting her thighs. “What’s that?” she asked -- raising her hands away from it the moment she spotted the brown stains of old blood. “ _Ew_!” She squirmed, now pinned to the seat by it -- thankful to still be wearing his hideous apron. 

The Joker ignored her dramatics and she caught the briefest glimpse of him _rolling his eyes_ and sighing. “Hey--” she whined at his reaction, after all, she could hardly be blamed for it. How had he expected her to react? _Oh, Mister J -- I wonder what’s inside, oh, I’m so excited! I can’t wait to get my hands all over this filthy thing!_ Her eyes narrowed at the clown suspiciously. 

“Don’t worry about that,” The Joker told her quickly, licking the edge of the carpet sample to then scrub vigorously at the stains on the bag -- “it’s nothing to worry about.” Right, blood -- _nothing to worry about._ Harleen frowned, puzzled -- but mostly squeamish. Her lip curled at him attempting to clean it -- and just as he was about to bring the little swatch of carpet back to his mouth and try again, she grabbed at his wrist and stopped him. 

“It’s fine!” she said shrilly -- “I think you got it all!” 

His brow twitched in a brief show of confusion, but the Joker complied, and smiling warmly at her then, he stood. “C’mon Harls, bring the gear, I’ve got something to show you!” 

Maybe she should have let him continue his gross attempt at removing the blood, since it was she who was to drag the bag wherever he wanted. Harleen cringed the moment she pulled on the handle and stood to join him. It was heavier than she expected it to be, tripping, Harleen struggled to pull it forward, hooking the strap over her shoulder to try and distribute some of the weight and panting. “Is it far?” she squeaked -- complaining in rapid grumbles under her breath. Why couldn’t _he_ carry it?! 

The Joker ignored her question -- and all of her other, increasingly loud complaints, whistling as they took two staircases and up into the attic extension of the nightclub. These back rooms and floors had yet to be repaired or redecorated, and Harleen had to step with extra caution, over splintered wood and lumps of fallen plaster. “Where are we goin’?!” she asked again, careful not to plummet to her death down the narrow flight of stairs. 

“My office! Or what _will be_ my office _,_ ” The Joker announced proudly, and he stopped at the door without warning. Harleen slammed into his back and swayed dangerously on her feet, having to grip tightly at his waist to avoid losing her footing and tumbling downward. 

“I know it’s exciting!” the Joker beamed, laughing -- mistaking her action of desperation for something else. Harleen sighed. “But you’ve not seen nothin’ yet!” 

Harleen was distracted from her disdain as soon as they entered, to fall upon the decor of the Joker’s office. She realised then, in the time he’d been absent downstairs, he must have been working on his own private space above them. Harleen’s anger subsided with surprise, and she admired his own handiwork. There were cabinets full of various drinks, pretty and unique bottles lined the shelves inside, displayed like expensive cologne rather than somethin’ just to get smashed on. He had a wardrobe, a desk -- all stained in black -- a plush red carpet and leopard-print paper he’d took to _adding to_ since they were marked and littered with splashed paint from his own hand, of smiley faces, J’s and toothy grins. This paint was illuminated by a black light above the door, and even the accidental speckles and splatter that marred the rich woodwork looked good. 

“I like it!” she exclaimed her encouragement, heaving the bag up and onto his desk to relieve herself of it finally. 

“That’s not all!” The Joker replied, obviously pleased at her approval, and drew Harleen’s attention to a covered canvas on the wall. A white sheet had been stuffed at the corners to hold it in place and protect it. Harleen’s curiosity was piqued. “It’s for you,” he told her, and Harleen was already buzzing with hidden excitement at the thought of another gift from J. The jukebox had been one of the most wonderful and well-thought out presents she’d ever received, so she had high hopes for this _other_. 

She hurried over and took a fistful of the cover, stripping it off to be assaulted by an image of pink, and blonde and deep, _deep_ red. Harleen’s stomach writhed in an ebbing rage at the poster in front of her. A spread of Peyton Riley, half nude, her delicately tipped red nails covered the tips of her breasts as she pushed them together, a vibrant pout, with matching vibrant lace panties -- all Harleen could see, was _red_. “The fuck _is this_!?” her voice broke in her anger, smarting at the painful pang of unpleasant and sickening jealousy. And it wasn’t the jealousy she’d grown used to when around Peyton Riley. It was intense and nauseating to know even the Joker, _HER_ captor, had this harlot hung up on his office wall. “Is this some kind of sick _joke_?!” Harleen snapped, pulling her face from Peyton’s generous _assets_ to glare at him. If so, it wasn’t remotely _funny_. 

“Nope!” he said simply, which only infuriated her further. “It’s _better_!” and he giggled as he headed to the other side of his desk, pushing the bag she’d dumped towards her. “Open up!” The Joker was far too happy for Harleen to deal with right now, and she swallowed hard on tears that welled in her throat. Why did he _do this?_ She unzipped the bag with little enthusiasm, sure to find some other _insulting_ and humiliating gift -- but quickly discovered the bag was bursting full of knives and other various sharp instruments. Scalpels, switchblades, steak knives, serrated, barbed, even a pizza cutter and potato peeler were among the collection. 

“You’ve tried your hand at the guns, so why not _knives_?” The Joker asked, and pointed to the Peyton poster, grinning. “ _Tadaa!_ Target practice. Or as I like to call it, _motivation_.” Was he on her side in this? 

Somehow, his words made the situation a little brighter, and Harleen sniffled through a smile, watching patiently as the Joker began to pull out and arrange a handful of the weapons (a butter knife too?) on the desk. He hummed along to himself as he quietly worked, until he was satisfied with the selection and display. His hands flitted to the blades and handles, as though tempted to take one for himself. Instead, he found Harleen, and had her pick from them in his place. 

Harleen was about as good as throwing knives as she was good at shooting. Her aim wasn’t _great_ \-- and it took many, many, _many_ attempts before she’d even landed a single blade. It hadn’t sunk into the poster, but had given Riley’s chest a little nick, right about where her heart would be. The Joker, despite her disastrous practice session, had been nothing but encouraging. Sometimes, a little too encouraging -- when he’d donned a high and girlish mocking voice -- what she was supposed to believe was Peyton, as he’d teased superiority. “Oh, Harleeeeeeen -- aren’t I _fabulous_? As you can see I’m practically _mourning_ your absence!” Surprisingly, his ridiculous antics actually _helped_ and it wasn’t long before Harleen was giggling at his over-the-top play-acting. It was almost _endearing_. 

But they grew tired of the game, of the near-misses and close-calls, the Joker led Harleen back down to the club, where they settled at the huge bonfire his men had lit in the car-park, burning all the scrap and damaged interior they’d dragged from the building to make way for the new. The smell of molten plastic seared her lungs, but Claus, with a tray of hot chocolate, was quick to distract them from their choking. Mug in hand, Harleen stood before the consuming flames alongside the Joker, warmed both on the outside and in. His thugs joined them, chatting quietly amongst themselves, passing roasted (most likely now _toxic_ marshmallows) and drinking deep from cups of cocoa.

 

♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

 

They sat on a tire together, one of the last remaining items left for his thugs to burn, and the flames lit up her face and flickered in her shining eyes, cheeks flushed pink against the heat of the blaze. Little lips at the rim of her mug and smiling to herself at the burning debris. He watched her at his shoulder, eyes fluttering with tiredness -- occasionally jolting as her nose dipped into the cream, and rubbing it furiously. Joker smiled. He was beginning to _like_ Harley, and like her _a lot_. His chest felt warm, _but was that the fire?_  She was _annoying_ , sensitive, emotional, sure but Joker couldn’t help but appreciate, since coming to know, the very raw and very realness of her character. Gotham would have _loved_ her, had he given them the chance -- and Harley would have gotten the love that she so desperately wanted in return. _There’s still time for that,_ he thought. “C’mon, Harls, let’s go home.” 

Joker said quick and curt goodbyes to his men, leaving them to carry on with work at Grin N Bare It into the night. Joker, typically, would have stayed, been sleepless, and suffered for it in the days to come, but _couldn’t_. He had a little harlequin to take home and put to bed, her eyes heavy with the nagging need to sleep, he guided her gently into the passenger seat of his car, carefully tugging the cup from her hands and returning it to Claus for safekeeping. 

“Bye, guys!” Harley waved out the window at the remaining goons, and they waved right back at her, “see ya’ later!” 

Joker hopped behind the wheel, and was quick to get the car on the road, he pulled out of the car-park and onto the neon street, all bright, from the strip of clubs, arcades and liquor stores, reds and orange and deep royal blues, bouncing off the damp cobblestones and lighting their way home. He caught Harley watching from her window, the world pass them by, a blur of multicolour madness. East Gotham had its charms, and this was certainly one of them. The moon was just as bright, and hung in the sky beside the vibrant yellow bat signal, illuminating the clouds. Gotham truly came alive at night, when the Bat came a-hunting -- and Joker sensed the quiet hum of life, it lingered thickly in the cool air. 

Harley’s breathing grew heavy, and Joker flitted his gaze across to the blonde in his company. Her head was propped up by the window, a breeze blowing the hair off her face as she slept. The sights, colours and sounds had lulled her into dreams, and Joker felt himself relax at her softly snoring. It had been a long time since he’d just sat back and cruised slow through the city he loved. For so long now, he’d played chase-me with the Bat, so consumed with their games that he had grown distant to Gotham itself. He would never, could never, feel like a _stranger_ here -- but he did feel a little _strange_ , nonetheless.

 

Joker turned to Harley once more, just to _check --_ and pulled her skirt down to cover her thighs. She was cool to his touch and he recoiled quickly at the slightest brush of her skin. His abdomen clenched as she shifted in her slumber, and spoke to him quietly in gibberish.

 

**_B A N G ! ! !_ **

 

A blast, loud as a gun at his ear, sent Joker, the car and all of it’s contents rocketing forward and firing off down the street, spinning and skidding, burning rubber billowed steam as he slammed a foot on the brakes. He flew into a lamppost, the impact tore through the bonnet and ripped his ride in two. Pain exploded, blinding, behind his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his teeth, as he violently headbutted the wheel. _Fuck --_ He was deafened, ears buzzing, sight scattered, a high ringing droned in his head like Arkham’s alarms, and he groaned through the pain that twanged at various parts of his body. 

As his mind sought clarity, Joker came to realise the high screech in his ear was no alarm at all. It was Harley, and she was screaming, and screaming, and _screaming_. And it just didn’t _stop_. He could barely move his neck, a mouth full of blood he couldn’t even taste. He reached out to her, choking and felt her hands grab at his roughly. Her screaming stopped and she spoke at him so frantically, he lost track of her words. “Please -- _please_ wake up! Mista’ J _please_ \-- you have ta’ wake up!” 

Joker smiled through spit at her as she came into view. He heard the click of his seatbelt, and her presence at his side and _shoving_. He could feel her fingers squeezing his palm, over and over. “Stay with me!” Harley told him, voice high and shaky. “You gotta get up! _Quick_!” She was crying. Well, _typical_. He scoffed through the blood that dribbled from his nose and lips. 

“There are people comin’ over! I think they _hit us_!” 

Harley’s announcement had the hairs on his aching neck stand on end -- and he fluttered -- _forced_ himself -- into full consciousness. He ignored the radiating pains that riddled his limbs, and sat forward, flinching, to stare out the shattered windscreen and onto the street. Harley was right. There were people. Five of them -- five of the False Facer _fucks_ and their leader, lingered by his own car he’d totalled in ramming them off of the road. Black Mask and his men were mocking in their approach. All chuckling behind cheap, plastic disguises -- all except for one, whose varnished mask was a work of art, a skull carved so smooth and skillfully, it was like staring down death itself. 

With strength derived from shock and adrenaline, Joker was able to grab Harley and drag her crying from the crushed scrap of his car. Both of them stumbled from the wreck, battered and bruised. Harley steadied him, clinging tightly to his waist and holding him on two feet, clawing at the back of his jacket, frantic and frightened. “I’m _scared_ \--” her voice was tiny. 

“Well, well, well, what’dya know?!” Sionis laughed, his voice rough as gravel. “We caught ourselves a clown _and_ his cocotte! I’ll have to charge Oswald extra for _that._ ” 

This was _bad_. Bad, bad, _bad_ , bad, **bad**. So, Black Mask too, was after the bounty Penguin had put out. And with being Black Mask, he hadn’t wasted _any time_ in chasing down the prince to claim his prize. Joker eyed up the competition, cautious. They were outnumbered -- _outgunned_ \-- and the False Facers descended on the couple, brandishing screwdrivers and bonesaws from leather jackets and puffer coats. Things were looking _bleak_. “A tad theatrical for you, Roman --” spoke Joker, laugh high, his throat tight, “but still, so _wooden_! Needs some work!” 

“That’s _it_ Joker,” Sionis drawled, “get your laughs in now, get ‘em in before I get a hold of ya’...” 

“Promises, promises!” 

Harley squeaked as they stepped forward, sharp, rusted weapons extended and ready to strike. Joker clung to her with one arm, and withdrew his gun with the other, pointing in turn, at each colourful, cooky cold face to settle his aim on Sionis. 

“Lucky fer _you_ , Penguin’s payin’ more for ya’ left **alive** \-- said nothin’ about _the girl_ though --” he couldn’t see Black Mask’s expression, but could hear the sadistic smile stretch his features. “I’m sure he won’t mind ya’ comin’ back with a few _scratches_ , hm? Get _‘em_ \--” 

Joker popped the trigger on the first to advance. Plastic caved with the bullet and shattered, blood, shards and brittle bone, teeth broke and littered where the body fell, head blown wide open. Harley screamed and fell back, she _let go_ of him in the shock of his shot and stumbled into the arms of one of Roman’s men. With his eyes on the men ahead, and unable to get a clean hit on Harley’s attacker -- Joker’s gun jumped from mask to mask. _Fuck!_ He couldn’t risk it, the man whose hands roved over Harley -- and she screamed madly in his hungry hold. But she tossed and turned away, grabbed her heel from her foot and _swung_ with all her desperate might. It pierced through her captive’s cheek, thrust into his mouth, and caught on the join of his lips, hanging.  _Ha! That's my girl!_

In the chaos that ensued and distracted, Joker was able to shoot down two more of Black Mask’s men, leaving only one other to tackle, and then on to Sionis himself. But as Black Mask advanced, a wrench tightly balled in his fist, he dived for Harley instead.

“You _LIL’ BITCH_!” he hollered, furious.

Joker hadn’t anticipated this move and held on his fire -- watching, stomach writhing, as the skull-faced _fuck_ tackled Harley to the ground, his arm raised high for a devastating, deadly blow. _No!_ Joker stumbled forward, “don’t --” heard a whipping at his ear -- and the wrench flew from Sionis’ hand to clatter at the curb. Joker laughed, loudly, hysterically, as he turned to face their saviour. Tall ears, hulking shadow, broad, black and brooding. “HA! HA! _HA!_ **HA!** Batman!? Oh, am I **happy** to see _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter -- sorry it took a while! I live in constant suspicion that my writing is boring, so I hope this delivers. Cuteness-and-carnage all rolled into one chapter, those are two of my favourite things! :^) L x ( madluv.tumblr.com )


	14. SHOW ON THE ROAD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A big, bad bat and a bullet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little late, but I hope it's worth it. Enjoy! :^)

 Before she’d even had time to process the pain, or the panic, Harleen had been tackled to the curb and cast against the concrete. Stars speckled her vision and a shiny, slate skull danced through the white noise, staring down at her. Blue eyes were deeply set behind the mask, wild and wicked and Harleen understood, _completely_ , her attackers intent even before witnessing the wrench in their white-knuckle grip. She’d seen it before, the first night at the warehouse spent in company of the Joker, with a blade to her throat. How he’d transfixed at the knife at her neck. How time had stood still. _How she’d trade for that now._ Harleen was sure to have seen this deathly, morbid mask on a Gotham’s most wanted, but the name alluded her -- her head pounded and throbbed, _was it any wonder she’d forgotten?_

From the stage, to circus, to _freak show_ , this couldn’t, **wouldn’t** be the end of Harleen Quinzel and she struggled madly beneath the strange man’s weight, squatting at her hips. She’d survived all this time alongside the Joker, she certainly wasn’t going to succumb to _him_ , whoever _he_ was. She screamed, emptied her lungs with screeches, scratching at the varnished surface of his skull-face and splintering. Metal clanged at her ear -- and her attacker was strangely, suddenly, weaponless.

“THA’ _FUCK?!_ ”

He appeared just as shocked as she was, and instead, with a newfound fury, swung his empty fist. Harleen felt her nose _crunch_ , a sickening pain erupted behind her throbbing eyes, blood poured from her nostrils, clogged at the back of the throat, knocking her back, head rutting roughly against the pavement. She cried, her hands splayed desperately in front of her, save he struck again. “D--don’t--” Dizzy and disorientated, Harleen could hear a high laughter, the Joker, unable to determine if it were real or imaginary. _Why was he laughing?_ Her heart sank to the lowest, deepest pit of her stomach, and writhed with an agony more severe than that of her swelling face. Tears streamed, _stung_ and any strength she had left her. _Please help me…_

Her silent prayers were answered by a shadow that swiftly knocked death flying and flailing, freeing Harleen. Though her head thrummed and ears buzzed madly, she came to recognise the great hulking figure who had flown to her rescue. The Batman. Far greater and more terrifying than she’d ever imagined, eyes bright and glowing against a mass of solid darkness. He was as magnificent as he was threatening, _built like a brick shithouse_ , he extended a gloved hand, speaking gruffly, “Harleen Quinzel?” He couldn’t-- _this can’t be_ \-- real. Harleen’s arms were weak, ached and trembled as she reached out gingerly, struck, simply _dumbfounded_ by the dark knight’s imposing presence.

“Oh, no, no, no, _NO_ , **NO**!”

The Joker flung himself around the Bat’s neck, fingertips brushed but their hand’s never met, Harleen’s hero was pulled back by his nemesis in a scuffle of punches, scratches, a clawing maniacal mess. She scrabbled to the roadside, away from the ruckus, watched with horror as Batman turned on the clown, throwing hit after hit at an already wounded Joker. Blood littered the gravel, splattered his suit -- _all his own_ . But he kept advancing, each time more menacing, more aggressive and madder than the next, lunging and leering. And each time, was thrown, with such force, he had started to limp, wince and spit thick strands of blood from his teeth. “It’s -- _ah_ \-- rude -- to interrupt --” The Joker spluttered through a low, throaty laugh, clicking his tongue and waggling a finger. “Will you _ever_ learn any manners? I’m beginning to think that you **won’t**.”

Harleen was stalled in her crawling away from the carnage, as her rummaging hand found the unconscious lump of her attacker, skull cracked up the middle to reveal a slither of olive skin beneath. She gasped, horrified, as her hand brushed his heaving chest. He breathed deeply against her palm and Harleen came to feel the cold, rattling of keys that peeked out from the inner pocket of his dinner jacket. Her mind whirled with the ridiculous -- but _real_ \-- notion of escape. Beyond the circling battle of black-and-white, Harleen spotted the car, the one that had rammed them off the road and into this predicament. It was _busted_ but in far better condition than that of their own and snatching the keys, Harleen struggled to her feet.

The Batman thumped the Joker so hard that he hit the ground and arched up, fists clenched and groaning. Harleen pulled herself away, towards the car, shaking madly. She dropped the the keys, and cried quietly into her hand, heard the awful crunching, thudding, gargling, whining, angry sounds of their ferocious fist-fight. The Joker was relentless in his attack, though clearly suffering and the Batman did not _once_ lessen the power and destruction of his blows. _Just take him in! It’s over!_ \-- she thought -- _he’s down, stop hurting him!_ \-- but the Bat didn’t seem, nor care to notice, how ravaged and ruined the Joker was. And the Joker would not. give. up.

Harleen gripped the keys and threw herself into the vehicle, ramming them into the ignition, blinded by tears. The car, despite its state, hummed into life and she crept off the curb, careful not to push it too quickly. She _drove_ \-- couldn’t believe she was driving -- shaking so madly, her breath rattled in her chest. She was finally free! She was going back to her life, to the dream of her name up in lights, she was going to make it! She glanced at the rear view mirror, saw her eyes squinting through already purpling sockets, nose bloody and face smeared in it. She spotted their animated figures in the background, the Batman, and the Joker, still tearing at each other like rabid animals. Her heart felt as bruised and battered as the rest of her. And then another -- another figure joining them, that awoke from it’s slumber and swayed on two, shiny black feet, it’s skull inky in the moonlight. Her attacker raised his gun from his belt and fired into the fray. Pop, pop, _pop_ , **pop!**

  


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Joker’s limbs were fire, hot and _hurt like hell,_ and he limped into each of Batman’s loathing lunges, tossed around like a toy by the big, bad bat. “And -- I thought -- you -- were losing your -- to -- _touch_ \--” he managed, though laughing scorched his lungs and left him breathless. But the sound of rapid gunfire gave him a brief moment to catch his breath, as the Bat and Joker broke apart, avoiding angry bullets that burst from Black Mask’s handgun. “Someone's woke up on the wrong side of the sidewalk,” Joker teased, his eyes narrowing at both enemies, a sudden stalemate as each man surveyed and studied the other. The high whining of an engine had them all break from their intense stares, as Harleen Quinzel was spotted, sat comfortably in the driver's seat, stirred up the gutter-stream and splashed the three of them in her escape.

“What?!” _What the fuck?!_ His hands flew up and into his hair, stunned, shocked at the situation unfolding before his very eyes, as his captive stole the one last getaway vehicle and sped off into the night. “ _Seriously?!_ ” Joker snapped, ignoring his unsavoury company. “Harley?!” and he turned to Batman -- who he would eagerly blame for this -- teeth gritted tight, “you scared her away!” Harley’s emotions seemed to have got the better of her this time… He’d get her back -- he’d _have_ to. It hurt a little, and Joker swallowed bitterly, turning to face the men responsible for this momentous _fuck-up_ . She was gone! She’d left him behind! He was done for! _Shit!_

“Ride or die, huh?” Sionis spoke, chuckling to himself, obviously, _thoroughly_ bemused by Joker’s predicament. “So, are ya’ comin’ wit me or the bat now ya little girlfriend’s _ran off_ ?” Black Mask’s broad shoulders jolted with each deep, bold laugh. _Oh, how hilarious…_

“Shut it!” Joker hissed, his own grim and bloodied smile had vanished completely. Not that any of this was funny before, it really, _really_ wasn’t funny now. And from Black Mask to Batman, his mind was whirring with what to do. This situation, having been bleak to begin with, had gone rapidly from bad to the _absolute worst_ . There was no way he was going back to Arkham _again_ and there was no way he was going to let Black Mask hand him over to Penguin for a pretty penny. Yet, each option was appearing more and more likely for the clown prince. Just as he was getting back on track… Harley had left him. His chest _burned_.

“You’re _both_ coming with **me** ,” Batman said, voice stern and serious as ever. _Ha!_ And he took ahold of Joker’s wrist so roughly Joker thought he’d snap his arm -- unless it was _already_ broken -- a splintered pain rocketing up to his elbow. Well, at least the **stabbing agony** erased any _sadness_ that had come creeping in his bones! He winced.

“Ow -- _ow_ \-- ow --oh- _kay_ !” Joker raised his free hand in surrender, “Batsy, _gentle_ , I’m not resisting!”

“Nah, but _I_ am --” Black Mask raised his pistol to Batman’s cowl, shaking his head. “N’ I got things I been needin’ to address with Joker here so --”

“You can continue your business behind bars,” the Bat concluded. _Witty_.

Both Sionis and Joker groaned in unison, but Black Mask showed his displeasure with a _BANG_ , firing a warning shot, clipping Batman's arm with the bullet, tearing the grey of his suit and grazing the skin beneath. Joker was thrown to the side, flinching as his knees cracked against the concrete, and Batman was upon Black Mask in an instant, fists hitting blow upon blow against the suited-and-booted. Joker didn’t envy him, already struggling with aggravated wounds of his own, wobbling to his feet. “Naughty, naughty,” Joker giggled from the sidelines, eyes glancing the street. He'd make a dash for it -- but _dashing_ anywhere at this point was out of the question, his body ached, just like Roman’s was going to. He smiled at the slither of retribution delivered by none other than that of the Bat. Things stung a little less at that.

Roman was a flurry of slurs and spit, giving as good as he got. But Batman was overpowering, _inhuman_ , in his attempts to reprehend him, and soon enough, Black Mask was just as much a spluttering state as the clown himself. It didn’t take long. It never did. And Sionis was gasping through the cracks of his splintered, split mask, splayed on his back like a fish out of water, wriggling against the immense weight of the Bat pressing down on his struggling chest. Joker laughed, thankful for once that someone else was taking Batman’s beat-down, and he clapped enthusiastically at their tiresome effort to take each other out. “My bet’s on Batman!” he called loudly, hoping Roman still heard him through the humming in his skull, stepping slowly, cautiously from the scene.

Batman turned from his second victim, and back to his first, mouth a thin line at Joker’s comment. _Oops._ The eared shadow stood from the sorry, limp body of Sionis, and stared at Joker’s attempt at slipping away and out of sight. Joker smiled, hoping _somehow_ , that would make his sneaking a little less insulting to the Bat -- but Batman never wavered, and Joker swallowed at what he could only assume would come of him now. “I was just looking for a better view!” he said, in a hurried gush of words, high and laughing nervously, smile wide as he could muster despite the swelling of his face.

Batman pounced, clamped at Joker’s throat and crushed, lifting him clean off the pavement so his feet dangled loosely. Joker’s eyes burned, his throat felt as though he was swallowing hot coals, taking the smallest, sharpest breaths between Batman’s relentless _squeezing_. He clawed, with little strength, at the Bat’s fingers, legs twitching as he desperately sought for grounding. My, my was Bats pissed off today!

 

**H O N K  H O N K  H O O O O O O O O O O O O N K**

 

An obnoxious car horn echoed down the street at them -- and Batman released his grip, blinded by the fog lights bearing down towards them with no intent of stopping. Batman had to move quickly to swipe Sionis to the side before it crushed his legs in it’s path, and Joker scrambled to the left before he splattered the bonnet. Tires screeched and engine whined as it turned, and a door flung open -- a high voice yelling, “Mista’ J, quick, jump in!”

“Harley! You little diamond, you precious little angel, you smart little --”

“ _Hurry!_ ”

Joker laughed loudly, _proudly_ , elated, despite the pain, despite his injuries, he felt weightless, wonderful! She’d come back for him. Harleen Quinzel, his Harley Quinn, had come back for _him_ . He hopped into the car, a new lease of life taking over, and he laughed hysterically, so, _so_ happy. “I could just kiss you!”

“Save it,” Harley said, slamming her foot to the floor, the car growling and shuddered beneath them.

Batman and Black Mask were scrapping for power, Batman desperate to reach the car, but torn between that and disarming his foe. Black Mask yelled, but Joker couldn’t hear over the struggling engine, yet witnessed him wriggling free and raising his pistol one last time -- eyes met with Joker’s through the passenger window and he threw off his damaged mask to aim and pull the trigger. Glass shattered and littered Joker’s lap, scratching at his face, the little shards stung. The window collapsed in on itself and he couldn’t resist poking his head out of the vacant space, scoffing, “Ha! You _missed_!”

Harley’s little voice distracted him from this joyous occasion, that he had to pull himself away from the extensive and aggravated assault Batman beat on Black Mask upon firing his gun.

“No, he didn’t --” Though she continued to drive onward, the battered blonde in at the wheel was crying, face etched with concern at the blossoming orchid of blood that leaked through the starch white of her shirt. One hand was fumbling blindly at the wound, fingers wet with stark red. Joker’s eyes grew wide at the instant realisation, of the bullet lodged inside of Harley Quinn. He couldn’t hide the horror, of his smile turning to that of shock. Oh, _no._

“It hurts!” she cried, her hand at the wheel shaking madly. “Am I gonna die, Mista’ J?!”

 _Fuck!_ He didn’t know -- _he didn’t know!_ He’d seen men live for hours after deadly gunshot wounds, until fever took them in the quiet hours of night. He’d seen men function semi-normal, not even knowing they’d been fired at, to drop dead in a matter of minutes. Above her breast was _bad_ \-- he knew that much. _Jesus, I hope not!_ His heart beat wildly in his chest, fighting with his jacket to get it off as quickly as he could, to hold it at the sodden hole of entry. _Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!_

“I said _I_ would kill you, remember?” he told her, snapping teeth in his very visible stress. “You ain’t gonna die by no hand but _mine._ ”  
  
“I remember,” she said sniffling, smiling weakly through her tears.


	15. CONTEMPORARY THEATRE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dance with death.

 

_ Bare bulbs buzzed and flickered, hot wires glowed against stark white skin. Her name, in lights, hovered above them, bold and brilliant, casting a spotlight down upon their silent waltz together. Hand in hand, they drew closer and closer, his breath at her neck and prickling. He pulled her into his arms and held onto her tightly, swoons and sighs left the audience though the auditorium was abandoned, derelict and torn asunder. A neon flashed and hummed, as his name too, hung swinging below her own, an illuminated squeaking scrawl that lit up the vibrancy of his green hair and his sharp, searching eyes, of what was a slinking silhouette of the Joker. _

__ This theatre  
_ proudly presentin’ _ ****__  
**_HARLEY QUINN_ ** ****__  
__ and Mista' J  
  


_ Their show. His and hers. Heat tickled Harleen's skin and rosied her glossy cheeks, as the Joker smiled down at her upon their stage, their dance. The warm glow of the lights softened his angular features and fuzzied the edges of all of his sharpness. He was handsome, and his hands were gentle with her own, his actions were calm and considerate, unlike the times he was maddened and manic, he was now so  _ **_very_ ** _ careful with her, as though she might fall and shatter if he were to lead her too fervently. Fingers flitted her frame and the fitted curves of her costume. Harleen’s skin was dewy, and her sequined dress sparkled with every dizzying twirl and turn. Delirious, she didn’t -- couldn’t -- remember this number from her production and stumbled, stepping on the Joker’s shiny shoes unsure of her footing, she’d never been a dancer quite like Peyton Riley… The audience that was not there, muttered, giggled and laughed at her mishap, the familiar and unpleasant pang of humiliation set in. But the Joker too, chuckled at her clumsiness, against her ear and squeezing her waist lightly with the long palm of his hand -- and suddenly, the embarrassment didn’t hurt so much, in fact, it didn’t hurt at all. The closer he was, beaming at her through the hot light, the more weightless she felt, and Harleen smiled too at her own mistake. Floating, she drew the Joker in, clutching at the shaven nape of his neck and leaning backward.  
_

_ For once, for the very first time, Harleen didn’t care about the invisible eyes upon her, the judging or the scrutiny, the whispers of a scandalised crowd. She didn’t care about what they wanted to see from her, whether they loved her, or didn’t. She didn’t care about anything other than keeping that happy smile on the face of her dance partner, and she pulled up, chest to chest, to meet with his unwavering eyeline, her hands at his prominent cheeks and holding him steady. The Joker’s expression altered to that of pleasant surprise, and her heart hammered in her ribcage at his heavy lids and open lips. She knew what was coming next -- despite the lack of this scene in her script -- and she accepted and anticipated it, a tingling thrill ran through her spine at the mere thought of their inevitable contact. Harleen’s fingers trembled against his glistening, corpse-white face, and tiptoed to meet his mouth with hers, suddenly hungry and eager for him against her. But she stopped, barely an inch from the Joker, to see a thin line of blood leak from his nose, deep red that trickled down to the crimson cupid’s bow of his lipstick.  
_

_ “Oh?”  
_

_ To Harleen’s dismay, the Joker dropped her, his touch left her hips to press a finger against the dribbling of blood, accidentally smearing it further across the brightness of his face. His smile dissipated, pulling back his hand to examine the red at his fingertips, confused, bewildered, a high brow twitched with concern. Gasps hissed from the non-existent crowd, and Harleen too, found she followed suit. Her breath faltered in her chest and it ached at the hitching. “Are you okay -- are you hurt?” To her horror the Joker said nothing, not even a quip to offer her, he dropped to one knee, panting and gasping, head down and shoulders shuddering, blood began to drool from his rasping mouth and onto the varnished stage floor. _

_ “Oh my god! Mista’ J?! What’s happenin’?!” Her heart was thumping so hard in her panic it was painful, and she swept the hair from his eyes, felt his clammy pallid forehead, turned to the empty theatre and cried, “can someone help us!? Please!” More droplets of red splattered, up from his lungs in a hacking cough and Harleen stifled a cry as it flicked up her shins and smudged against the gloss of her skin-coloured tights. “Oh, baby,” she whispered quietly to him as he struggled, “it’s gonna be okay -- it’s gonna be okay -- I promise --” _

_ Screams erupted so sharp and so suddenly that Harleen was snapped from her care of the Joker and out to the proscenium, where a dark shape was moving through the shadows, between the rows and rows of seats, stepping forth, a huge and hulking, horned demon. No! Not now! She stood, shaking, despite herself, shielding the Joker from the glowing glare of the monster in their midst. “Can’t you see he’s injured?” she yelled out at it, voice echoing and echoing and echoing. “Don’t come any closer!” Harleen stamped a heel against the woodwork, staring down at the ever-advancing Batman from the lip of the stage. “He’s hurt -- leave him alone --” her voice crackled at her demand, “please!” _

_ Batman didn’t respond, and didn’t halter either. He took to the set of stairs by the wings and continued his deliberate, steady walk towards them. Bulbs flickered and burst from behind them -- his presence bought a suffocating, ebbing, darkness, he donned a cloak that billowed and rippled out, swallowing everything that the Bat passed, until only the stage and the spotlight was left, encircling Harleen and the Joker within. Trapped or protected, Harleen couldn’t tell. “Don’t hurt him!” she snapped, and moved as he did, to shield the Joker from his bright, beaming eyes, like two searchlights swooping a great, dark lake. “LEAVE US ALONE!” _

_ Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  _ **_ha_ ** _ aaaaah -- _

_ Ha ha  _ **_haaa_ ** _ ha ha HA HA HAHAHA HA  _ **_HAAAA_ ** _ HA HA  _ **_HA !_ **

_ The laughter gurgled up from behind her, and Harleen felt the Joker’s grip on her legs, jerking with each hacking, angry, crazed laugh that filled the complete, absolute abyss surrounding them. “Don’t mind him, Harls,” she heard him gag on his own spittle, “Batsy’s just jealous.” She turned to help the Joker to his feet, saw the deep, dark stains of blood against the orange of his open shirt, the spit and blood that stringed from his mouth to his chin and his tie. He was a state, and her chest clamped at the sight of his battering. The Joker swayed on his feet, eyes hazy and grin wide, twisted and swollen. “Ain’t that right old pal?” _

_ “What have you done to him?!” _

_ Batman said nothing, not to Harleen, and not even to the Joker, who continued to splutter and laugh at her shoulder and sagging. She squeaked under his weight, desperate to protect him from the waiting blackness. The Batman was patient and persistent, biding his time, he slipped in and out of the void and Harleen knew he wouldn’t leave without the man in her arms. I won’t let you take him. I won’t. _

_ “Did you miss me? Well, ain’t that  _ **_sweet_ ** _.” The Joker lunged from Harleen’s support, taking darkness in his thrashing arms and hammering his fist against it’s solid jaw, over and over, until one of it’s glowing eyes sparked and fizzled out. He continued to rain down vicious punches, snarling and spitting at The Bat beneath him, laughing all the while through his sudden act of violence. “Miss me now?” he asked, again and again, until his fist was knuckle-bone against the teeth of his nemesis. “Do. you. miss. me. now?” _

_ Harleen backed away from the brutality, breathing deep and hard against her hand, held over her open and trembling mouth. Her lungs splintered with pains that shot up through her back and between her ribs. Her body shook wildly, her eyes wide, too terrified for tears. It wasn’t the Joker that frightened her, nor his gnashing teeth or blazing anger -- but the Batman below, who, no matter how hard he was hit, would not -- and did not  -- go down. Please, just stop! She begged silently for it to end. And the Joker, despite his upper hand, was visibly, blatantly worse off. Blood still trickled from his nose, dribbled from the corner of his mouth, his breath was ragged, he was ruined and writhing and wincing -- but he persevered through immense pain because he was single-mindedly rabid atop Batman.   _

_ He was hurt and she was  _ **_scared_ ** _. She wanted nothing but his gentleness back, the softness, a kiss. Batman bought out the worst in the Joker, a raging, animalistic anger that he didn’t need to tempt him further. If the Batman was gone, he could be the Joker Harleen liked, the one that made her laugh, bought her gifts and danced with her nicely, and watched her like she was the only person on earth that he saw. “Stop --” She backed up against a mass and turned abruptly, swivelled on her feet and into the bold bat symbol abreast the big, bad, Bat. He towered above her, seemingly untouched by the Joker though she had seen the Joker strip his knuckles raw in his ferociousness. _

_ The Bat extended a hand, his deep voice bounced in her head as much as it bounced the walls of the auditorium. “Harleen Quinzel?” He didn’t take her hand. Not this time. Instead, plunged his knuckle deep into her chest, pain erupted, winding her, her mind soared, buzzed and hummed in momentary madness, he stole the air from her lungs, and the thoughts from her mind and Harleen watched, mouth agape as he pulled back, her beating heart sat upon his palm and fluttered like the wings of a caged bird. She felt as though every weight in her body had been lifted, that she was nothing -- empty -- a bottomless pit of grief and despair -- nothingness. She dropped to her knees, eyes on her heart and crying, screaming into the creeping darkness she could not escape, and watched in agony, as the Batman held her heart and  _ **_crushed_ ** __ it in his fist.  
  
  


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Joker watched with an unbreakable gaze, the beads of sweat that swelled and ran down the pale, unusually gaunt face of Harley Quinn. Restrained by his men, she tossed and turned in throes of silent and terrible agony, vastly smaller, skinnier and more feeble than he’d ever seen her. Her limbs were littered in bruises and cuts from their crash, and the wound in her chest was wide and spouting deep,  _ dark _ blood that had Joker’s heart thudding and his head pounding. He’d seen many a horror in his life, of which rarely ever,  _ ever  _ phased him -- hell, more often than not it was  _ funny _ , but  _ this, _ this was something he found himself completely and utterly  _ unprepared for _ \-- and could not deny nor hide the stress that had his fists clenching, his anger rising, and a terrible,  _ terrible _ sadness bubbling just below the surface. If she was to die on that steel table tonight, that was going to be the same unfortunate fate for  _ everyone else _ in that room, he’d already promised himself of  _ that _ .

He felt sick in his fury. Of the failure he anticipated and feared. Harley had, despite all her misgivings, successfully driven them back to the warehouse after  _ saving him _ , amidst all of her crying and panicking, she had done him  _ so proud _ . He'd kept as much pressure on the wound that he could have done -- his jacket was ruined (and very worryingly, soaked through) by the time they’d smashed through the garage doors, and Joker had screamed madly for assistance. But Joker hadn't been able to keep the control in his voice when trying to comfort her, and Harley had noted every heightened, strained pitch with alarm. She had pressed him with desperation questions of dying, and she had pleaded with him --  _ don’t let this be it _ .  _ Was she going to die?! _ “You're  **not** going to die.” He forbid it. He absolutely forbid it. “I’m not done with you.” She had shrunk at his snapping, and had screamed as they drew out the table, he’d held her jaw in his hand and told her firmly, angrily, determined. “You’re  **not** . You hear me?”

Joker knew that she couldn't hear him. Not anymore. Harley was  _ out _ , her mind wandered someplace  _ else _ , traversing the levels of her pain threshold without the  _ grim reality _ attached to it. Thanks to a concoction she'd breathed deep into her lungs on the arrival of none other than Jonathan Crane, who’d forced a bag to her face and tubed an entire canister of gas into it. It had deflated quickly, with her rapid, frightened,  _ ragged _ breaths, her eyes had lost their glimmer and Harley was  _ gone _ . She clearly still  _ felt _ \-- as she continued to cry out and struggle against his men, but she was no longer  _ coherent _ . It wasn’t a comfort. But, Joker had dialled and demanded that the stupid, sorrowful, sack-wearing  _ Scarecrow _ needed to come and save her skin, “ _ or he'd lose his own” _ \-- and Crane, as always, submitted to Joker’s desperate demands, sensing the serious endangerment on his life, did he not do as he was told.  _ They’d always said he was smart _ . And shit! He was the only doctor Joker knew, the only doctor Joker knew that wouldn’t attempt to  _ section him _ \-- or  _ euthanize him _ at this stage (since Scarecrow himself required either  _ or _ .) Crane was the only viable option, and he’d arrived within the hour donning a burlap sack, a briefcase in tow. His methods were questionable but Joker had very few options left in his arsenal, and even  _ less _ time. The risk was too great -- “Save  _ her _ !”

“May I quickly remind you, I’m a  _ psychiatrist _ , not a surgeon --” Crane had said, blanching as his eyes fell upon Harley held at the table, rolling up the sleeves of his dirty plaid shirt, pulling surgical gloves right up to his skinny elbows.

“You quacks are all the same!” Joker felt his skin boiling. “Just  _ fix her _ \--”

“She needs a hospital.”

Jonathan Crane had an infuriatingly pompous attitude ( _ always! _ ) and prodded at and into the wound with a spindly finger, his mouth a thin line as he scrutinised the set-up before him. Suspicious of Joker’s henchmen forcibly holding each of her limbs atop a commercial kitchen table, Crane surveyed the situation as though he had all the time in the world. His knuckle reached Harley’s skin and she rocked upward, screaming. Joker could feel rage thumping through his veins, his head close to splitting in two, he knew that Crane was feeling for the bullet, but he didn't like it.  _ Not one bit. _ “Don't test me,” Joker warned, a low and guttural growl that forced, with a choke, from his mouth. Other days, he would have revelled in the way Scarecrow looked at people, like rats ready for dissection, but not today, and not with his Harley. “She dies, you die,” he spoke, with firm and total conviction. It was a promise, to all of them, but especially him, and he flicked a blade against Crane's thin and sinewy neck to solidify his statement. “No place for mistakes today  _ Johnny _ .”

Scarecrow gave a lengthy sigh, as though the knife at his throat was a mere inconvenience, rather than acting as that of a threat. Joker guessed he'd done this too often with Crane, that this type of interaction was now simply predictable, expected, a common occurrence. Joker seethed, teeth gritted tight.  _ Oh, how he hated him  _ and his slimy,  _ softly-softly _ disposition.

“This will require some  _ concentration _ ,” Scarecrow said simply, the same bloodied finger he'd stuck in Harley, he used to gently move the blade away. Crane’s ghostly eyes didn't waver behind his ragged mask, and Joker tossed the knife aside, slamming his fist against the steel. Pain shot up to his shoulder, sharp and hot like lightning, his knuckles already having been stripped from his fight with Batman, he hissed through his teeth. “ _ FUCK! _ ” He felt Crane jolt as the table rattled.

“You've done this before right?” Joker flicked his wrist to be rid of the sting, and Crane flinched.  _ Ha! _

“On myself,” Scarecrow replied cautiously, and Joker couldn't help but scoff viciously -- “ _ good! Did you ever remove one of mine!? _ ” -- at his answer. If Crane wasn't so desperately needed, he'd give him some  _ other wounds _ to perform self-surgery on! But Harley whimpered and drew Joker from his deathly glower. She was sweating profusely, her blonde bob stuck slick to her jawline, her skin a sallow white and shining with sweat. Her breaths were small and shallow, her fingernails scraping and palms slipping on the metal surface beneath.

“Get it done.” Joker drew from his pocket a wad of cash -- one of the bundles he'd gained from the Penguin's safe -- watched intently as Scarecrow’s eyes grew wide at the offer he slapped on the table. Crane might’ve not been a man motivated by money, but chemicals and pharmaceuticals did not come free.

“She worth some value, is she?” Crane’s frayed head tilted at Harley’s writhing with curiosity, a cold curiosity a scientist would give a rodent growing extra limbs.

Though Joker couldn’t see his face, he could hear the smile in Scarecrow’s voice.  _ That smug skin crawling, softly spoken sack of shit! _ His stomach tensed and twisted, and his hands twitched at his temples though they longed to be putting Crane to the concrete. Joker laughed in his discomfort. “I'm not paying you to  _ speak _ ,  _ Doc _ , I'm paying you to fuckin’ work.”

Joker didn’t trust  _ doctors _ , psychiatrists were _ useless _ and he certainly did not  _ enjoy  _ the company of Doctor Crane, but all things considered, the latter was the lesser of evils, for him at least. Again, Crane sighed and took to his briefcase, Joker watched all the while, unblinking, eyes  _ aching _ . The case was full of intricate implements, real surgical tools that albeit a little rusted at the handles (and a tad dull) were at least  _ clean  _ and well kept.

“Hope you’ve had your tetanus, Harls!” he joked, but his lips were down-turned, and he felt  _ sick _ through his low laughter.

Crane may have not been a  _ surgeon _ but he was certainly  _ precise _ . As Scarecrow carefully undone the remaining buttons of her shirt, he didn’t once touch her skin as though the even her heat radiating repulsed him. Joker knew Jonathan to be prude, but  _ now?!  _ The poor girl was drenched in her own blood, eyes rolling, contorting -- hardly wining, dining and ready for fucking.  _ Jesus _ . “Get a grip,” Joker snapped and tore open the rest of her top, her buttons  _ pop _ -pop- _ popping _ off and onto the floor.

It was  _ bad _ . So bad that Joker, nor his men, could hide their grave expressions once the wound was fully revealed to them. The bullet had torn a wide hole that sat between Harley’s armpit and the flat of her breast, the skin was  _ messy _ , ragged edges and dribbling generous amounts of claret. There was no wider exit wound,  _ he knew that _ , the bullet was wriggling around somewhere in Harley’s tiny torso. Close to all the vital parts, her lungs, her spine,  _ her heart _ . Joker’s throat was tight. The sickness -- the burning, unbearable  _ anger _ \-- rose to the point that he turned away from her, from the scene, from Scarecrow, from all of it. He grabbed the box TV from it’s stand and tossed it, kicked the chair and watched it clatter, grabbed the strands and strands of fairy lights she’d taken time to stick up, and tore them down with fervent fury. If she was going to  **die** \-- they’d be  _ no need _ for her nonsense anyway! He’d liked the warehouse how it was! Hadn’t he? Didn’t he?  _ Was she really going to die? _

His henchman watched Joker’s rampage in wise silence, Scarecrow upped the intake of Harley’s gas and continued with his work, equally as quiet.  _ Smart.  _ Joker stood, shaking with a rage that burned beneath the skin, prickled at his neckline and ground his aching jaw. “Claus, you’re with me. Get five guys, the van --  _ now _ . I’ve got a sudden urge to  _ clip the wings _ off a bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the LATE chapter, I have been SUPER BUSY with work (I'm now the boss, so yay?) I've been excited to get this out, finally, for the last week!  
> I just want to take a quick moment to say thanks for the support and love I've gotten for this story so far -- you guys are really keeping me going right now, so thank you! I love all the comments, especially, they are all equally as adorable. I am loving the appreciation for my version of Joker and Harley, seriously, thank you! I'd given up with writing, so thank you, thank you, thank you.  
> I was so happy to be asked for the next chapter, since I realise I may have accidentally (unintentionally) left you all on a cliff-hanger last time. This chapter isn't much of a comforter though either, is it? I hope you enjoyed it, none-the-less. Lotsa love, L x  
> Feel free to come find and chat with me anytime @ madluv.tumblr.com


	16. REUNION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bond made in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are some mistakes in this chapter. I've edited it briefly, but with being so busy (and impatient) and I just wanted it out. Enjoy!

The Cobblepot Manor was perched on the very outskirts of the city, it's shining front doors faced the great beyond, opposed to the ever-growing Gotham skyline. Angular architecture lined with golds, creams and glass, it was an art deco statement piece with high windows and higher ceilings, it’s lavishness hidden partially behind layers and levels of scaffolding. It was, after all, still in the process of restoration. Oswald, having grown so successful in recent years, had publicly announced this expensive side-project months ago. A personal passion, Cobblepot sought to renovate and rejuvenate his family heritage, starting with the family home. The manor before had been left to ruin, but Oswald had pulled it from the brink of bulldozing, throwing riches at builders upon builders, historians and architects, to bring it back to it's former glory. And as much as Joker hated to admit, it had _worked_. The tall, sharp and grandiose building looked as though it had been dipped in time, brass beamed sunlight back at their squinting eyes, as they hopped from the back of the van, one by one, to gather outside the grand gates of the premises.

Thanks to slow, steady city traffic, it had taken Joker and his men an hour to reach the manor, having sat together in silence, they'd each endured an awkward, windowless and wordless drive. He couldn't have stayed at the warehouse, even if he wanted to. _He didn't want to._ Not with Harley writhing on the table, while Crane roughly fingered her chest. Not with her weak struggles and screaming. He’d have killed Crane if he had stayed, had him by his skinny neck, a knife up in his ribcage, over and over and gasping -- If she were going to die, he didn't want to be there. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to acknowledge it. _Not at all._ His hands had been tight and twisting fists in his lap for the journey. Nervous, hurting and _seething_ with rage. Cobblepot was going to pay dearly for whatever _losses_ Joker was expecting (and _dreading_ ). Black Mask, though having shot the bullet lodged close to Harley’s heart, had been taken on by Batman, and beaten. Joker, instead, wanted to target _the source_ of his problem, the one who’d put a price on the clown prince himself. The Penguin. And though lacking the resources to target the man directly -- would _TEAR DOWN_ his established order until he could _TEAR OUT_ his throat with his teeth instead!

Joker stepped from the van, last of the six, to join them by the entrance of Cobblepot’s estate. Claus, having been the designated driver and recruiter for this spontaneous and unexpected mission, stood tall and imposing amongst the mismatched band of miscreants. There was Happy, named for his complete and utter lack of joy from life, a greying, handsome ex-mobster, who’d met Joker years prior to exact vengeance on his family, having been betrayed and shunted from ever getting his hands on their substantial fortune. He’d been with Joker and served him ever since. Then, Nick -- a fresh faced little fucker, part-time thug, part-time pizza delivery guy, liked the money, but _loved_ the violence, was always unreliable, but relentless when in presence of his boss. Joker liked him _a lot,_ he had more guts and more gall than he could contain. Yanos, not so much, but he was at least loyal, a baby-faced ladies man, an excellent shot, and smooth as silk. Lastly, joining the party, was Frog, a wide-mouthed, ugly, heavy lidded loser, who sought to impress, no matter how seedy or unsavoury the subject. He had his uses. His use for today was to unload the van of all it’s fuel cans, and drag them up the gravel path to Cobblepot’s front door.

Too hot for work to commence, and still in construction, the site was empty. Joker and his unusual entourage were able to stroll through the creaking gates and right up to manor without any issue. There was a stride in Joker’s step as they approached, eager to smash through the expensive stained-glass windows of the double-front doors. It was going to be _all too easy_ . The thought of stripping Cobblepot of his most prized project had him sneering. It didn’t even the odds but Joker hoped it could sooth some of the rampant fury he felt, making him twitchy, tight, wound like a spring on a rusted nail. He went to put a hand through the glass, but winced. They were painfully swollen, knuckles barely distinguishable amidst a mottling of grazes, blood and massive bruising. Claus appeared to recognise his boss's desire instantly and took out the windows as though fisting through paper. Joker smiled, genuinely, wide-eyed at his most impressive specimen, little pins of glass stuck (gone entirely unnoticed by the brute mute) in Claus’s forearm and solid bicep. “Why, thank you, you _shouldn't have_!” Claus said nothing as always -- and kicked the doors inward.

Joker couldn’t hide his eagerness to get inside the Cobblepot’s mansion, and on announcing “ladies first!” hopped into the hall, hands clapping ecstatically despite the pain this caused. The interior was just as carefully reconstructed as it’s shell. There was scaffolding on the inside for painters to rework the original patterns on the walls, the carpets had been remade to reflect the era of it’s birth, the decoration -- though currently sparse, was blatantly bespoke. The amount of money Penguin must have poured into this, only added to Joker’s delight at the thought of demolishing it. But with such beauty to behold, he thought -- _absently_ \-- of Harley Quinn. She’d _love_ this place, he knew. The golds, the glamour, reminded him of her stage, the first he’d seen of her, glimmering in the spotlight. The style, the sleekness, the elegance. He sighed and his anger ebbed in his chest. Joker would salvage something for her from all this -- for when she woke up -- if she would. _Wake up_.

Frog had finished bringing all the fuel cans into the lobby, skin glistened with sweat from his labour in the blazing heat of midafternoon. He drew a sleeve of his suit (no wonder he was melting!) across his forehead, and gleamed proudly. “S’all here, boss,” he croaked -- another reason for his nickname -- his ridiculously harsh and broken voice.

Joker nodded, the small smile on his mouth twitching at the corners, “ _good_.”

There were specific ways in which to burn buildings. Fuel, obviously, was a necessity, to speed the process and ensure little to no complication of the fire taking. Then, where to start them. Since he had five men to help bring the building to the ground, he had to give enough time for them to leave with their skin, their _selves_ intact. So, no explosions. Not today. Electrical wires were a good start -- would pull fire through plaster and paste, and spread evenly. Gas pipes, though the most efficient way of wiping things off the map, wouldn’t give them enough time to escape before the blaze was unbearable and ready to _blow_. He wanted nothing but ash left for Penguin to pot up, and needed a fire big enough for this to be possible.

“Chimneys, soot, old wood, old wiring, blankets, curtains -- find it, _soak it_ \--” Joker grinned, “crack every window, let’s _air_ this place _out_ …” His men smirked at his order, eyes flitting one another, they found enjoyment and excitement in Joker’s weird work.

“Anythin’ you say, J.”

They spread out, splashing generous amounts of petrol onto freshly steamed carpets, over cushions, over bare wiring left for electricians. Wood was easy to reach and soak, thanks to workmen having stripped back the wallpaper to fix the rotting beams. The building, in the stages of its reinvention and improvement, had been left entirely vulnerable.

Joker laughed to himself as he took the stairs, eyes peeled for something to take back to Harley. He strode into each room, glancing shelves, mantles and sides for a gift. _A thank you_ . A thank you for returning to his side and saving him from another long stint at Arkham Asylum. It still surprised him, the fact she’d sped back to his aid, and _hurt_ when he thought of what had become of her because of it. There were always risks attached to Joker’s lifestyle, he understood, his goons understood, even the Batman understood that life was fragile, and death fickle, when the clown prince came knocking. It was unfortunate ( _very unfortunate_ ) for Harls, that she discovered that this way. He’d come to like her -- had grown accustomed to her presence at the warehouse, at the club, in his car, with his guys, that it seemed a _terrible shame_ for that to go away. Everything did, in the end.

Cobblepot’s bedroom was obvious upon reaching it. The boudoir was huge, carved in white wood, a cream canopy of glittering net reached each of its corners. A giant, snarling head of a polar bear hung high above the headboard. Everything was fur, or _bone_ , ivory, or skin. And the singular pole, central to the room, that gleamed from the ceiling to the floor - was certainly not in place with the rest of the household. Joker’s nose crinkled. Whatever Penguin did in here, planned to do -- Joker didn’t want to know. _Fuck_ , who _would?_ He took to tearing out the drawers first, empty, _empty_ , empty. Then the cupboards, some drink, some trinkets, some condoms  -- then the wardrobe, a suit, a suit, a different suit, suit, suit, suit -- _really?_ \-- suit, suit, suit  -- Ah! He paused at a glittering gold dress, he’d almost missed swiping through the monotony of Oswald’s clothing. It was slight enough for Harley, encrusted with sparkling white gems from the thin straps at the shoulder, to the hem at the ankles. He pulled it from the hanger to consider it further. He had _no_ idea…

“Good choice,” spoke a voice that had Joker jolting, swivelling, gun pointing.

He sighed as he found Happy at the doorway, fuel can in hand, clearly ready and waiting to douse the master bedroom too. Joker stared blankly at him and his statement.

“Ha _ha_ **hah** , what does it matter?” Joker asked, but folded the dress under his arm none-the-less, “she’ll be wearing it in her _coffin_.” He scoffed, laughed louder, higher and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “Let’s get this show started, shall we?” and he moved to let Happy rinse the room with gasoline, giggling maniacally at the sloshing liquid set to burn and burn _and burn_.

 

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Harleen woke with her head in a bucket, _heaving_ . Her throat was fire, her ribcage sung with pain at each and every retching motion. Her skin was unbearably _hot_ , sweat and sick seemed to rise in waves from her body, and she spat up bile that burned up her insides. She groaned, cried, _whined_ , felt hands at her forehead pushing the slick blonde from her bleary eyes. She wasn’t _dead_ \-- but perhaps -- this _was worse_ . Was she dying? Was it going to be slow and painful as _this_ ? She cried, heavy, hard sobs that triggered another vicious wave of purging. Her body had nothing left to give, no tears -- no vomit. She was _hollow_ . Harleen remembered the shot, how she’d never feared anything quite as much as that wound at her chest, bubbling blood. She’d remembered the Joker, bloodied and bruised, his face had been a smeared mess of spit, lipstick, and deep, deep red. He had been _so hurt_ too -- _was he okay?_ She took the hand at her head and held it in a trembling grip. Her palms slipped but it took hers in return, a firmer, solid hold.

“Steady -- _steady_ \--” said a voice she recognised -- but it wasn’t the Joker’s, and her heart dipped so suddenly, she felt she might puke back up again.

It was Floyd. His red-nosed mask rested on his frizzy black hair like a hat, his amber eyes warm as she met with his gaze. The first she’d seen of him, he’d been dressed as a clown and tossing cold water up and into her face, now he roused her gently from the brink of death -- so it _felt_ . How completely and utterly _fucked_ had her life gotten? Just as it had finally, for the first time, been looking on the up. She had been near to famous and now she wasn’t even sure she was going to _survive_ . Harleen laughed, laughed through tears that barely inched passed the edges of her eyelids. “Oh my fuckin’ _god_ \--” she breathed, “I’m _alive_?”

Floyd, joined her in her laughter -- breathing a lengthy sigh of relief. “Yeah, yeah, you are, thank _fuck_ that you are.” His hands enveloped her own, and squeezed it tight. “You ain’t the _slightest_ how fucked things would have gotten if -- _shit_ \--” He seemed as thankful as she was that she’d awoken. It was _flattering_ to think that they had cared? For whatever reason? As depraved as it was, it was undeniably satisfying. Real grief, for the real her. Harleen half-smiled, half-winced as she pulled herself away from the bucket to rest on her back, breathing shallow to save from the pangs in her lungs.

She’d been moved from the table-top and onto her mattress -- only her mattress was now accompanied by a frame, and no longer sat on the cold, concrete floor. Taking a bullet for the Joker’s sake seemed to have upped her bedding. The sheets had been cleaned, the mattress was _covered,_ the pillows were plush, and _new_. “Is he okay?” Harleen asked, despite herself -- despite knowing how inappropriate -- how ridiculous it was to feel such concern for her captor. But she couldn’t help her curiosity. Was _desperate_ to know he was _alright_. They’d made it out together, she’d remembered the flitting fear in his features, something she’d never expected to see from the Joker. How he’d pressed his jacket at her bleeding and pleaded with his eyes at her. _Don’t you go dying on me. I’m not finished with you. Don’t think you can just waltz up and take the easy way out!_ He’d slapped her cheek with the back of his fingers. _Hey! Hey!_ _Listen -- to --_ ** _ME_** _!_ Her heart fluttered weakly at the quiet memory, still teetering in the aftermath of the drugs and adrenaline.

“The boss?” Floyd seemed pleased that she’d asked, and nodded. “Yeah, he’s fine -- _angry as fuck_ , but fine. Don’t worry about him, he gets shot at all the time!” He waved his hand nonchalant. To them, this was _nothing_ . A scratch! She supposed that to his lackeys, having the Joker turn up black-and-blue was simply a part of their usual routine. It had upset her to see Batman bludgeoning the Joker. She’d only ever heard of his daring, dangerous heroism, she hadn’t once thought about that enacted in _real life_ . It had been as far from the handsome-man-swoops-in-to-save-his-endangered-dame as she could have possibly imagined. And it had been the Joker she’d saved, despite everything. It had been _the right thing_ to do.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the darkening warehouse, spindly and crooked, it stepped out and into the light. For the briefest of moments she’d held her breath, hoping it was _him_ \-- but instead, was met with a sack for a face and a creeping, dirty, thin, twitching of limbs. She screamed. Floyd leaped for his gun -- sighed as he realised, and took a hold of her shoulder, whispering quietly. “It’s alright, It’s _alright!_ It’s just Scarecrow --”

_Just Scarecrow..._

“Just _Scarecrow_ ?!” she’d seen this awful face before, several years prior, followed by the proposal of evacuating the _entire city_ . This face had threatened every single citizen, with a rasping voice across every network, every phone line, every radio station. That each and every one of them would **die** in the throes of true and terrible _fear_ . He’d gassed East Gotham _completely_ that day, having hospitalised people in their hundreds. She’d been lucky -- and had been at an audition elsewhere, the _nice part_ , where the rich went untouched and didn’t even flinch for the poor. That she’d had to stay with a fellow auditionee that night, unable to return to her shoddy apartment. Hadn’t been able to _admit_ where she lived, and had fucked him as though she liked him to save the embarrassment. Harleen had remembered the news, the papers, the fear that lingered _for weeks,_ even after the Batman had got him. “Ain’t you that creepy _terrorist_ guy?!” Harleen didn’t know why she’d asked. He was. Unmistakably.

“I removed the bullet from your body, that’s all you really need to know,” his voice was soft and southern, it didn’t suit the visage that set before her. He placed a box on her bed and _said bullet_ rolled inside. “It was inches from your heart. It will take a while for you to fully recover.”

Harleen looked down at the metal slug, the thick J scratched into its side was red with what could only be _her_ blood. The man in the skull mask had been so intent on getting to the Joker, she swelled with a little pride to know she had stopped them. Lil’ ol’ Harleen Quinzel had stopped the mob in their attempted murder. “I knew I’d be good for _somethin_ ’!” she fisted the air, and _winced_ at the sting of the intravenous. _Ouch._

“Meat shields certainly have their uses,” Scarecrow chuckled and she didn’t like it, scowling. It wasn’t like when the Joker jabbed. This was cold, callous and deliberately _cruel_.

“Hey! That’s not what it was _like_ !” It wasn’t! _At all_! If they’d seen the Joker’s face, they’d have known. It had been a mistake! An accident! And it had shocked him as much as it had her. She’d seen it in his eyes, the instant regret. The fright that had scared her too, more than the bleeding at her breast. How his smile had dropped and laughter had left him.

“I really _don’t care_ .” And he didn't, it was made blatantly obvious that he _didn’t_.

“Well you’ve saved a celebrity, how’s that make ya’ feel?” Harleen probed, despite the man’s clear dismissal, and smiled with as much warmth as she could at him.

His eyes were void of humour, calculating, _vacant_ , as he looked her over, redressed her leaking wound with gauze, more gauze and duct tape. Scarecrow worked quickly enough that she didn’t get a chance to see the damage -- and cringed at the tenderness there. It was red and raised at the edges of the tape, and sore to his briefest of touches.

“I don’t know who you are,” he replied blandly, busying himself with checking the drip at her right.

 _Like he didn’t know_ . Harleen scoffed. “Don’t ya’ watch the _news_ ? I’ve been missin’ fer _weeks_ !” It was pitiful to admit, all that _hard work_ in attempt to fit in, failed audition after failed audition, mindlessly fucking into a final role that would elevate her to fame and -- and all for nought, nada, _nothin’_. To get exposure simply for being stolen from her one true moment, and known instead as the unfortunate missing person the Joker had nabbed off the stage. She sighed. “Ain’t you at least heard of the show?!”

Scarecrow stared at her incredulously, as though stupefied by her simple question. “Are you feeling any pain -- perhaps I can give you more sedative?” Clearly that was the creepy man’s way of saying _kindly, shut the fuck up_.

Laughter ensued, loud and echoing laughter -- of _many_ . That had Floyd stand, Scarecrow turn, and Harley jolt -- _ouch_ \-- in her bed. It took seconds for her to realise, amongst the cacophony, that the Joker had returned and was very, _very_ amused. As were his men, who howled alongside him, as they made their way into the building, a band of crazed individuals, covered head-to-toe in soot. The Joker was clutching at his sides, wielding an empty fuel can and stumbling in his struggle to stay afoot from all the cackling. His eyes watered, from smoke, or from laughter -- she couldn’t tell which. Harleen was desperate to leap up from her bed, and squeaked as the movement shot splintered pain through her limbs. She instead, smiled ear to ear. “You’re back!”

Harleen’s little voice cut the laughter dead, and the Joker immediately spotted her movement, and smiling from her cot they’d created for her. For a moment it seemed like he hadn’t seen her at all, as though he didn’t expect her, had forgotten he still held her hostage. There was a fleeting moment of shock that flashed on his sharp features, taken aback. That she was _alive_.

“Harley, _baby_ !” He opened his arms as though announcing her presence, to his men, the warehouse, _the world_ . Throwing a hand up and into his hair, he cracked a grin wider than she’d ever seen. Her heart hammered madly -- though it ached, she felt weightless. She’d made it. _They’d made it._

“You had me goin’ Harls --” he waggled a finger at her as he approached, “you really had me going there --” and he bent down to press the tiniest kiss on her forehead, so small that she didn’t even feel it’s contact. He smelt like dirty fire, a bonfire burning plastics. His eyes were piercingly bright against the black smudged over his features. His sleeves were charred and rough at her cheeks. He smiled down at her, his gaze unbreakable, as though it was first time he’d ever laid eyes on her. “That’s _my girl_!” He spoke with such assurance, such conviction, that Harleen felt her cheeks grow hotter still. As she reached absently for his collar, the Joker pulled away. He ducked deliberately from her touch, and came to sit at the foot of her bed instead. Out of arm's reach. _It hurt._ Harleen pulled her wandering hand back quickly, and bunched a fist at her chest.

"Morphine?" Scarecrow's hushed voice wavered -- and Harleen felt him tug at her IV. She winced, but couldn't pull her eyes from the Joker, who though watching her calmly, Harleen could see the threads of his neck in his _tenseness_. He looked grave under the soot, under the ruined guise, the black eyes, the burned suit. He looked _lost_. It pulled at her battered heart. She just wanted to _touch_ him -- _comfort_ him somehow. She wanted so much to tell him it would all be okay, that she would be fine -- but as Harleen came to speak aloud, she found she couldn't talk at all, and as the edges of her vision faded, she sighed into deep, dreamless drug-induced sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I introduced some new goons, hope you like them. :^) Felt like we needed some more of J's crew to pop up! Plus, I like giving them some personality. I'm kind of fond of them.  
> I loved the idea for this chapter, so I just wanted it posted. Many thanks again for reading and supporting. All the mad love, L x


	17. BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diners, drive-ins and dives.

Harleen didn't know how long she'd been asleep for, couldn't remember how many days it had been since the crash and the crude surgery. Harleen had woken in slithers from time to time, to voices and faces that had never been _his_ , only to drift back into the dreamless dark, in waves of exhaustion, fever and fragility. Despite some brief disorientation, Harleen came to, with clarity, propping herself up on her elbows and wiping bleary eyes with some ferocity. The most lucid she’d felt in what had seemed like forever, Harleen sought familiarity in the warehouse, found that she was wrapped in clean linen upon her bed, and could spot the same faces she had come to know, and even like, throughout her time as the Joker’s hostage. From the foggy pink of the sky, the hazy beams from high windows, Harleen could only assume it was dawn. Things were quiet in the warehouse, and _still_ , save for a couple of the Joker’s men lingering, smoking cigarettes, laughing and speaking in hushed voices amongst themselves. Armed to the teeth (and then some) they were clearly on guard duty, but busy instead with playing poker, as they had done with her the first night she’d met them. It bought a warmth to her weakened limbs and a smile to her sore face, that it didn't feel at all strange to have woken up to this setting. That the scene before her offered solace, something she wouldn't have had at hospital, or even at _home_. Having taken a bullet for the Joker, and having saved him from another beating off the Bat, Harleen had earned acceptance and a sense of belonging. All those years of yearning for her place among people, was this it presented to her now?

Was it _crazy_ to admit she felt more at home amongst the Joker’s crates of dynamite and demented thugs, than she had ever felt amongst her fellow actors and Gotham’s glamorous elite? She glanced the warehouse floor, in hopes of a glimpse of him. _Where was he?_ Pulling herself up and against plush pillows, Harleen’s hand knocked a roughly wrapped parcel that had been positioned in her sleeping lap. In the same untidy scrawl that had been scribbled on the label for the jukebox, was written in sharpie over the crumpled brown paper, **Good show, J,** followed by a green heart with an arrow through its center. Harleen gathered the Joker had been pleased with her participation and opened the present eagerly. A gold and glittering dress fell onto her thighs, it’s sequins and diamantes caught on the starchy linen of her bedsheets. It smelt of _soot_ \-- and she recalled, the Joker having come to her, singed and smelling of _fire_ . Some of it’s seams had been burned black, but it simply added to it’s charm. Harleen smiled to think of the Joker, manically parading through a blaze, her dress in hand. Who else would have given her a jukebox of show tunes she _loved_ , or a sparkling dress saved from deadly fire? The thoughtfulness was _more_ than flattering and Harleen’s little heart fluttered. _How romantic._

Harleen flipped the covers, her legs mottled with the purples and greens of aged bruises, and wiggled her toes to the static of pins and needles that fizzed in her muscles and bones. She noted that the Joker’s lackeys had removed her shirt and skirt, _who knew when_ , and dressed her in what she could only assume where the Joker’s _down day_ clothes. Over her panties they’d pulled on a pair of his purple boxers, embroidered with gold J’s all over. She giggled at the elaborate ridiculousness, as endearing and _stupid_ as they looked. _Who makes these?_ On top, they’d donned her a big baggy t-shirt, that she grinned ever wider at upon seeing the text across her chest. **I SURVIVED THE JOKER** in bold, black font. Just as she had told him she’d seen sold down by the subways. She squeaked.

Harleen went to hop from her cot, more eager than ever to find and thank Mistah’ J for all of his gifts and thoughtfulness. Genuinely happy (and _excited_ ) to see him. She had so much to say -- so thrilled that they had both survived, so antsy for what this spelt for them both, from here on out. Her feet touched the floor. But it wasn’t the cold of concrete she had been expecting, had come to know from the warehouse floor. It was warm, warm, soft and _squishy_ \-- and swore loudly as she stumbled over it’s uneven surface.

“S--sorry!” Harleen stumbled all over the sleeping body at her feet, before realising fully what she was treading on and struggling to keep her balance. A mattress had been pushed beside her bed, covered by a sleeping bag, and wrapped tightly within was the Joker himself, waking unpleasantly, _suddenly_ , to being stepped on. _Repeatedly_.

“ _Why_?” he croaked as Harleen accidentally crushed the air from his lungs, having hopped from his diaphragm to find solid ground.

“I’m sorry -- I’m _sorry_ !” It had been _hard_ for Harleen to walk, since she hadn’t stood in a while, her legs were _weak_ , like jelly, and had trampled the Joker until she found her footing. He coughed and spluttered, moaning quietly as he sat, barely conscious he roused from the cocoon of his sleeping bag, blinking absently and clutching at his stomach. Her breath hitched, ankles buckled, and Harleen tumbled, arms out towards the man she’d suffered alongside, and had suffered so much _for_ . Her knees met the mattress and she gathered him up, arms flung either side of his neck, she kissed him roughly, _once_ , on the cheek. “I’m _so_ sorry!” she announced loudly, grabbing at his shoulders and shaking him.

The Joker winced at her kiss, pulled back to watch her blankly. Her chest _hurt_ to see the two fading _black-and-blue_ eyes staring, a scabbed nick in his eyebrow, a thick strip of duct tape pressed over the bridge of his nose… He looked a sorry state, and in his sleepiness, even _soft_ . There was a tiny, a **terrible** , slither of sadist joy Harleen hid behind a gentle smile, to _love_ the littering of war wounds the Joker was sporting. The love of his vulnerability, she doubted many - _if any_ \- often got to see. In some _twisted_ way, Harleen felt special. _Finally._

He wiggled free from her hold, flicked her arms from his shoulders but reciprocated her smile, still. “Could have just asked me to move, Harls,” he scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair to flatten the silly quiffs that stuck out like horns from the back of his head.

She laughed, felt light, and _happy_ , wanted so much to _hug him_ , but knew he would evade her reach if she tried again. “Thank you,” Harleen spoke gingerly, her own hands at her wrists and rubbing. “Fer lookin’ after me, and for the dress. That was real sweet of ya’.”

The Joker eyed her curiously, _confused_ ,  flitted the features of her face, calculating as he leaned forward, nose only _inches_ from her own. “I _owe_ **_you_ ** ,” he said, voice a low growl and spoken with conviction. He was unwavering, _challenging_ , as though saving him had only proved to complicate their situation, whatever that was. It was clear, _concise_ , the Joker wasn’t used to owing anyone _anything_ but Harleen Quinzel was his exception. She felt the hotness of his breath on her lips and he stole her own as he sucked in sharply. She couldn’t tell whether it was _anger_ that he looked at her with. Or something else entirely. He extended a hand that hovered at her cheek, he pressed a thumb against the corner of her mouth, pressed up to prompt the curve of a half-smile. His fingers at her lips had her trembling. He smiled, widely, _forcefully_ and Harleen’s heart hammered in it’s cage against her ribs.

“I guess ya’ do,” she said quietly, unable to break away from his steely stare. Unable to pull away from his nail pressing against the softness of her small, bowed lips.

He _snorted_ , snapped his hand from the graze at her cheek, struggled from his sleeping bag and stood abruptly. She watched as he dragged a sleeve across his mouth, taking the last of the red from his lips and chin, left over make-up from the day before. As though she had kissed him then, and he was removing any mark of it… Harleen found she could breath again once he’d bought them some distance, and exhaled loudly, chest _aching_ from tenseness. His eyes had held that same tenacity as the first time he’d had her, sat in the chair and trembling at the end of his knife. But she’d been at the end of his fingers instead, and trembling still. Not from _fear_ though. Not this time.

“Hungry?” he asked loudly, and Harleen jumped at his brash barking. He pointed to the dress on the bed, jabbing. “Get ready. We’re going for breakfast!"

 

♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

 

Harley’s face had dropped the moment they’d turned into the car park of the dusty run-down diner, and she’d looked down at her slightly charred dress, expression etched with distress at the realisation of their destination. “ _Here?!_ ” she asked incredulously, as though the mere suggestion was outlandish and _outrageous_ . Joker frowned, in concentration, as he crawled the sports car, _carefully does it_ , into the last remaining space. He realised, fully, Harley would have most likely been expecting breakfast tea at some swank hotel uptown, and not some _dive_ of a diner fifteen minutes from their current location at the dockyard warehouses. But he liked this place, and needed, for now, to remain _lowkey_. Tiffany's diner -- the local grease kitchen. The breakfast menu was good though -- and he’d seen her munch her way through meals twice the size of her head, he was sure that Harley would appreciate the joint, once they were inside and ready to order.

“Dressed like _this_ ?!” she continued, and looked about ready to cry. _Oh, fuck no._

Joker turned to his dramatic acquaintance, and unblinking, asked, “why not?” From the glitter at her heels she’d worn on stage, to the dress he’d stolen from Penguin’s manor, her hair a tangled mess from the week spent tossing and turning in bed, duct tape and bloodied gauze at her chest -- she looked nothing less than _raw_ _and true_. It was an altogether improved look from the picture he’d first seen of her, fresh faced and false on the front of the news. He leant over her lap, to retrieve the gun from his glove compartment -- and caught the glimpse of shock, _of excitement_ , that stalled the onset of tears and turned Harley Quinn _coy_ instead.

“ _Ooh_ , do ya’ think they do _pancakes_?”

It was six in the morning, and the diner was packed. Full of tired looking workmen, shovelling what they could of fattening frying-pan-breakfasts before long and laborious days in the factories by the docks. At first, no one noticed them enter. Joker in a shitty purple rain mac and swim shorts, and Harley in her (only slightly) singed ball gown and heels. People didn’t look for what they couldn’t predict, and the world kept spinning until the waitress waltzed over to give them a table. Joker could see the cogs turning, as the waitress took in their clothes and then glanced across at his face. Her smile fell, her shoulder’s sagged, and her fat lower lip started to tremble with terror. Of the realisation of Joker in their midsts. Unmistakable, murderous, Gotham’s _madman_. “A booth please!” he asked, with a toothy smile that had the waitress paling further. “We don’t mind waiting, do we Harls?”

“Not at all, Mistah’ J,” came Harley’s reply, head already buried in a menu she’d snatched from the stand. He _knew_ she would’ve liked it!

“A-absolutely, sir --” the waitress stammered, “right this way --”

Heads began to turn, at the _clop-clop-clop_ of him dragging his flip flops over the diner’s wooden floor. Harley in tow, head still buried in the menu. Poor girl hadn’t eaten solids for a week, he didn’t blame her for her enthusiasm. Joker eyed the patrons as he passed, one by one. Each of them, upon spotting his face -- even make-up-less -- had them gasping and turning back to their meals. Those that did notice, hurried to pay, but there were others too caught in discussion or stacks of pancakes, to realise the clown prince’s presence therein.

They sat, and Harley finally dropped the menu to beam at him sweetly. “I can’t pick! I want one of _everythin_ ’ they got --” she whispered, giggling, as though the thought was simply too _scandalous_ to air aloud.

Joker grinned, and turned to the waitress, purring his request as she shook, horrified above her writing pad, “you heard the girl, _one of everything_ it’ll be then!” And he flashed the gun in his lap to point at the woman’s wavy thighs. “You let me and the lady dine in peace, I won’t have to _ruin your day_ , how about that?” He caught Harley’s expression, wide-eyed with thrill at his words.

“Of course! Of course!” The waitress was tougher than she looked, and nodded frantically at Joker’s threat, _understood_ , eyes darting back and forth from his face to the gun. “Comin’ right up!” She rushed to jot down their half-assed order, stumbled as she swivelled, sped over to her till and out of sight.

Joker smiled, pleased with the progress so far, and turned his attention back to Harley instead, who was _people watching,_ quietly and content. She must have felt his eyes upon her, as she too pulled away from the bustle of the restaurant to meet with his eyeline. He threw his glock on the table and leaned back into the cheap, pink leather of the booth, stretching his long and lank limbs, he felt himself relax.

“Are ya’ hungry? _I’m starvin_ ’. Their breakfast menu’s _so big_ \-- I can’t wait to try it. Have ya’ been here before? I can’t wait to try the milkshakes! They do strawberry, banana, toffee, vanilla, raspberry, chocolate, even --”

“Harley.” He wasn’t used to much idle chatter. Sure, he had guys who wouldn’t _shut up_ , but more often than not he spent his personal time _alone_ . It wasn’t that he didn’t have men to talk at, or people to engage with when he _chose to,_ but Joker despite his entourage, despite his loyal lackeys, spent a great deal of time mulling _on his own_ . If anyone was talking, it was usually _him_ . Harley went quiet at the mere mention of her given name, and Joker smiled. She really was a sweet little thing to look at, sitting innocently opposite, all curious in the eyes, and tender at the mouth. The bruises on her face had almost healed, all that was left  were faded purple rings above her cheekbones, barely visible through the blushing of her cheeks. And the gauze at her chest, that was bloodied but better, with each and every change of dressing, she was recovering well. Harley had made it through the _worst of it_ , and the only way for her now, was _up_.

Joker had hung by her side the whole week-and-a-half she’d been unconscious. As much as he had wanted to go for the Penguin, again _and again_ , striking whatever property he could get his hands on, Joker _hadn’t_ . The manor had burned, burned up like a beacon. He and his men had watched on the news from her bedside, toasting to each and every failed attempt at firefighters dousing the blaze. He’d been successful in erasing the Penguin’s household heritage, and nothing had been left to recover. Harleen had slept through, at peace, though he’d done it for her -- and had _hoped_ , for a man who never hoped, that she would come back from this. He had, at times, lashed out at his men while she slept. Had punched Nick so hard he’d knocked out three of his back teeth. Had argued and bitched at Happy while cleaning his gun, Joker had been sure he was contemplating aiming and firing, so he’d pushed and _he’d pushed_ until Happy shot through a window and stormed from the warehouse. _If only she knew what she’d done to him._

Harley spinned the barrel of his gun, aimlessly, flicking it with a chipped gold fingernail, over and over. Her cheeks grew redder still as her tummy grumbled, and she giggled with embarrassment at her obvious hunger. _How long had he been staring at her?_ “They’re taking their _sweet time_ ,” he spoke, suspicious of his lack of waitress and leaning over the end of their booth to seek her out again.

“They _are_ makin’ everythin’ on the menu Mistah’ J, that's gonna take _some time_ \--” came Harley’s little voice of reason.

But she was hungry. _She’d suffered enough_ . “Hello?” Joker’s voice was high and strained as he beckoned their scared waitress back over to their booth by the window. “How long is this going to take?” he asked, “I’m a very _busy man_ .” Fingers twitching at his ringed fingers, finding it difficult to stifle the anger and impatience that _burned_ just beneath the surface of his smile.

“You’re in the line, sir,” the waitress spoke, voice dipping and raising, legs twitching. “The restaurant is _very busy_ also, I can speak to the --”

Joker reached for his gun and fired five shots, in quick succession, at the diner ceiling. Plaster fell like snow onto his and Harley’s table, she both squealed _and_ clapped at the show. Shocked but not remotely _appalled_ . Instead, she seemed to enjoy it. Immediately, the seats began to empty, in one hurried, manic rush towards the door. The bell above the entrance _ring-a-ding-a-ring’d_ for five minutes, until only Joker, Harley and the waitress were left front-of-house. Harley was still clapping, but stopped when she came to realise the awkward stillness.

“Oh.” She coughed into her fist.  
  
“Now _how long_?” Joker growled, grin wide and smug, he couldn’t resist asking again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for the delay for this chapter. (I feel as though all my chapters are always delayed!) I had a funeral to attend which took up a lot of my writing time. I hope to be able to remain on schedule (fingers crossed) for future chapters since I'm always super eager to get them out to the people who are constantly supporting me and my work. Thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> J's etiquette in this chapter is somethin' to witness don'tcha think? :^) I barely edited this at all, so if you found a lot of mistakes, I am sorry. **edit:** I also lost two ppls bookmarks after posting this chapter -- I don't know whether to be bummed out by this or not? Oopsie.


	18. VERY IMPORTANT PERSONS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invitations and home invaders.

Despite the chaos that ensued both in the diner and the kitchen, after Joker had unloaded _bullet after bullet_ into the ceiling, he’d left the restaurant -- and left the waitress with the widest smile stretched from ear to ear. This was unusual for the clown prince, though his name spoke otherwise, often leaving premises to the cacophony of cries and screaming as opposed to winning grins all round. What he found funny wasn’t often received with good humour by _anybody else_. What helped in this circumstance, had been Harley Quinn, who having stuffed stacks and stacks of pancakes until satisfied, had demanded he leave a tip for the lady who’d served them, and for the chefs who'd prepared their mountainous feast, the bus boys, the porter…

“Anyone _else_?!” he hissed, emptying the loose change and lint from the shallow pockets of his shorts.

Harley stared, crossed her arms, pursed her lips. The same expression he'd seen at the club when harmlessly proposing she’d help them to fix things up. _What had he done now?_ Standing, sighing, and pulling out the inner lining of his pockets, he rinsed himself of his last remaining twenty dollar bills. He saw $80 _just sitting there_. The only cash he had thought to carry. “Happy now?”

She glowered and whispered to him harshly from her spot at the table. “You shot up their roof!”

“You're killin’ me, Harls,” he huffed, all eyes on him as Harley signalled not-so-subtly for more. _How minted did she think he was?!_ He hadn't intended on paying! Her silence spoke volumes. “ _Fine!_ ” Joker pulled from his rain mac a tattered cheque book (more of a prop than anything) he reserved it's use for those _SUPER SERIOUS_ business meetings. Ha! _Ha!_ **Ha!** And he was using it now to pay for their service. “I got a tip for you, Harley--” he started.

“Just cough it up.” She wasn't taking the joke.

Joker snatched the pen from the waitress waiting patiently with her pad, and scribbled the one, followed quickly by three fat zeros. Finally, Harley smiled, and relief set in. _Good grief._ Now fed, full and having had her ( _ridiculous_ ) demands met, Harley seemed in good enough spirits to latch onto his arm as they left the diner. Joker tensed instinctively at her touch. If anyone had hold of him, it was often followed by several blows and a severe beating, her light link at his forearm was a foreign feeling, a gentle gesture, and Harley tugged him towards the direction of his porsche sitting in the lot. Joker smiled as she led him back to his car, smiled at her sweet expression, the littered freckles on her face bought out in the morning sun, and smiling mostly, his last laugh, knowing full well the cheque he’d left behind would certainly bounce.

“That was _good_. You should take me out again sometime!” Harley exclaimed excitedly. The fresh air and food had done wonders for her already. The pink was rising in her cheeks, some of the plumpness had returned to her rounded features. She still needed time, but recovery looked fruitful. Harley turned to face him as they reached the passenger door, and she hung on for his answer, head tilted and smiling warmly, still. “What d’ya say?” She stood on one foot, then the other, eyebrow raised expectantly. “I got some good places we could go. Some chef’s I wouldn’t mind ya’ shootin’” she spoke coyly.

Joker’s mouth slacked at the suggestion of them sharing company. Not that he was opposed, in fact, quite the contrary. “A couple of pancakes and you’re good to go, huh?” he chuckled. “You are _too easy_ .” His laughter faltered as her expression altered. What had been glee was now grumpy and _glaring_ at him.

“What’re yer tryin’ to say?!”

Joker blinked, blankly. _Why was she so difficult?!_ “To please -- _easy to please_ !” It didn't matter. The damage was done. Harley hopped into her seat and slammed the door before he could even begin to rectify his statement. _Fuck._ Joker wound a hand through his hair and breathed deeply through his building frustration. _Breathe in. Breathe out._ Miss Quinzel had proved time and time again to be something of a handful. He considered scolding her, watched her as she rummaged through his glove compartment for a lighter, her fingers brushed the purple plastic of his personalised taser -- well, maybe he'd confront her another time instead! A tinny text tone bleated from the inner pocket of his mac, distracting Joker momentarily from thoughts of telling off his hot-headed harlequin.

**sent at 6:30am**

**@ club u comin??**

 

**sent at 7:15am**

**come soon #badnews**

 

**sent at 7:30am**

**???**

 

**sent at 7:38am**

**u know it wouldn't hurt to answer 4 once**

 

Floyd. Joker frowned at the phone screen. They'd dealt with their fair share of _bad news_ the last few weeks, he wasn't really in the mood to stomach anymore of it… He still winced when dressing, it still stung to squint his eyes. Reluctantly, dragging his feet, Joker followed suit and took his seat at the wheel. Harley waited for him to turn the ignition, to wind down the window and start up a smoke. Silence ensued between them, both steaming for reasons neither wished to discuss. The morning had started _so swimmingly…_

“We gotta quickly swing by the club.”

Harley’s arms crossed again, eyes never leaving the view from her window. A plume of smoke left her lips, swallowing back her sadness, her anger, it was hard to tell which. “Oh, _goodie_.”

They didn't speak for the rest of the journey. Harley smoked and clutched the covered wound at her chest, Joker jittered in the uncomfortable quiet. He wasn't used to voicing his care or concern, so the words he wanted to speak never left his lips. But he knew, with writhing discomfort, he genuinely cared for Harley. He'd tried to ignore it, when the bullet had been wriggling in her torso, when he'd thought she might die, he tried just as much to ignore it now. But Joker kept glancing her way nonetheless, wanting so desperately to crack a joke and distract her. Pull her from whatever depressing and downing thoughts she was dwelling on. Harley was irritating, _irrational_ but she was just as much interesting and individual. He hadn't lost her on the operating table, he didn't want to lose her to _disagreements_ instead. “Sweetness, I --”

“What's goin’ on?”

Harley flicked her third and final cigarette out of the window, leaning on the sill and staring wide-eyed as they approached the broken exterior of Grin N’ Bare It. The carpark was uncharacteristically full, all of his men must have rallied therein. Happy stood at the backdoor, a shotgun rested on a cocked hip. The club was no longer a misused husk, but acting as a true base of Joker operations. Though it bought a thrill to witness the return of its former glory, of the budding potential, there was a twinge of suspicion as to why he'd been summoned. Harley had seen the club near on empty, unguarded, a goon hang-out, he could hear her breath hitch to see it like _this_.

“Business calls.”

She'd become accustomed to his guys with guns at the warehouse, she'd even witnessed murder, with Eric taking a shot straight to the face on her attempted escape -- but she hadn't seen his men armed and ready for turf war, wandering his property in broad daylight. The reality of his work had her nervous. Joker stepped from his vehicle and Harley followed hesitantly behind. She gripped his arm for an altogether different reason now, but Joker would take whatever he could get. “No one here is gonna hurt you, kid.” He meant it. Not one of his men would dare lay a finger on her now, not after seeing her locked in his arms, not after seeing her laid out screaming on that table. “They’re just looking out for us. They're completely harmless!” Joker’s voice was soft, for once. _Not if they wanted to keep their heads_.

Harley clearly struggled with deciding on what to make of his statement, eyeing their weapons and chewing her lip. “Completely harmless,” she repeated.  Still, Harley settled on a small and quivering smile at his words. “Oh-kay Mistah’ J. I believe ya.” She _didn’t_ , but it was sweet enough to say, regardless.

Together, they headed inside, Harley bumping at his hip and holding onto his sleeve tightly. They weaved around the men who had gathered, some he knew and recognised, some stranger faces also drifted through their midsts. As expected, his ranks would rise throughout the coming weeks, recruited or invited by other henchmen, they would crawl out from the rotten woodwork of the Gotham’s underbelly, to pick and work for a side before the oncoming storm. Gang war in Gotham spelt serious dollar for most, so lackeys were easy to come by, gun fodder or not. Burning Cobblepot’s family manor had started the motion towards warfare in the streets of the city and they were standing on the precipice of times _a-changing_.

Pool tables had been drawn together, glasses, dusty bottles, cards and coins, had been placed to use as strategic symbols upon the scuffed green felt. Wayne Tower represented by a dusty bottle of pink champagne. A bowl of moulding peanuts stood in for Gotham City Police Department. Among other various items. Joker’s closer circle of miscreants, save for Happy, _lingered_ , lacking any of their usual light-heartedness or laughter. Yanos, the ladies man, sat near on sobbing in the leather booth, a black letter in hand and shaking. He sniffed as his eyes lifted from the table to Joker and Harley who stood at the doorway.

Floyd, in his clown attire, approached from the bar, phone in hand and huffing. “I was just about to text you again.”

“No need,” Joker stated, eyeing each and every miserable face moping in the club. “Man walks into a bar--”

“Cobblepot’s men cornered Yanos at the Iceberg Lounge, he's got somethin’ he wants ya’ to have.”

Joker’s grin dropped at being cut from his joke, “that’s not the punchline…” The mere mention of the name that had gotten him beaten black and blue, had him confronting both Black Mask and Batman, and had put Harley in a drug-induced coma while a bullet intended for him, engraved with _his_ initial, had buried itself beside her beating heart. “ _What?_ ” The word came as a cold and quiet whisper, that even Harley stepped aside.

Yanos’ dark eyes wavered in their sockets as Joker approached, and he advanced without ever feeling his own footsteps on the hardwood floor. He felt hot under the plastic of his rain mac, and growing hotter still. He eyed the black paper in Yanos’ trembling hands. Tears teetered on the thick row of dark lashes, his handsome stubbled jaw was set _tight_ . Yanos was beautiful, but he was also naturally, _fucking stupid_. Shocker.

“What you got there?” Joker queried.

Yanos offered up the paper, shaking, into Joker’s splayed palm. “I never said shit,” he blurted. “I wouldn't, _I’d never_ \--” he spluttered in his panic. “I go there all the time, I pick up girl’s there _all the time_ , I ain't ever had problems, boss, but they got me in the peephole and they fuckin’ pressed me man, pressed me to give you this.”

The light glinted off an embossed silver Joker, and he flipped to see, what no doubt everyone else in the room _already had_. In silver pen, an elaborate cursive, read:

_Dearest Joker,_

 

 _I sincerely apologise for, what can only be surmised as, a grave misunderstanding. You have taken something which I considered incredibly dear to me, of that you know. To prevent any further misunderstandings of this expensive and extensive nature, I would like to call a truce. Man to man. I am willing to accept losses, if I can be assured of profit in future endeavours. I am, after all, nothing but a businessman working to better_ **_our_ ** _beloved Gotham City. I wish to invite you, personally, to my yearly charity event held in honour of the hard work of those at Arkham Asylum (of that I am sure you have personally benefitted from in the past). I would like to extend to you, my guest of honour, a VIP entry, where we can discuss business matters further, face to face._

 

_Find it in your heart to give generously to this important and integral cause._

 

_Kindest Regards,_

_Oswald Cobblepot_

 

He scanned in silence, for minutes. A terrible rage bubbled just beneath the surface of his sallow, clammy skin. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, glaring down at the eloquent invite. From the politeness of the letter, Joker knew he'd poked a nerve others dared not. That the invitation was anything but _a truce_.

“That's the third place I've been barred from now, ‘cause of you,” Yanos’ brows were furrowed, sweat beaded at his neat, dark hairline. “Where am I supposed to take the ladies now!? You even got me banned on tinder!” His voice shook with every syllable. “They gave me the invite -- told me to get the fuck out, if I ever go back, they’ll fuckin’ gut me boss.”

Joker eyed his resident playboy darkly. “Well, we can’t be rude can we? Not after such effort! What would they take me for?” He leaned into Yanos, angered at his stupidity -- his complete and utter naivety to have been spotted at the Lounge and recognised. He wanted to gut him himself. “Of course we are going to go!”

“They’ll kill me!”

“Tragic!” Joker laughed, a loud short bark that had his men shrinking into the shadows.

“A’ invitation?” Harley’s high and curious tone piped up and Joker’s attention was snapped away from his paling pal squirming in his booth. The intenseness of his gaze had her startled, and she shuffled in the corner. “To what?” Harley scuttled over before he could answer, ignoring how he seethed, her wide and eager eyes perused the letter in his hand. “Can I see?”

Joker scoffed. “Sure thing, doll.” He smiled at Yanos widely, and revelled in him recoiling. _Haa._

Harley frowned, but didn't chastise him -- clearly far too intent on nosing in his business instead. Joker watched her expression as she scanned the page, darting to and fro, there was a hunger in her eyes as she devoured the words. She grinned, clutched the letter to her chest, and squealed so suddenly it had Joker and his entourage jolting. A glass shattered at the bar, followed by a croaky “ _fuck_ ” from Frog, who grumbled when pouring himself another gin as replacement.

Joker’s hand twitched as his heart hammered, pointed a finger at Harley and snarling, “you need to stop--”

“This is so _excitin_ ’!” Harley squeaked. “Invited to the one n’ only! One of Cobblepot’s charity galas? They're the place to be! I’ve tried to get in before but all the _real important_ people get invited! All the _rich an’ famous_ ! The guest list is _A list only_ !” She gleamed in the neon light. Paused and considered. “How tha’ hell did _you_ get an invite?”

Joker gaped, finger still pointed aimlessly. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” _Point taken_ , he'd never been invited before -- he didn't really want to admit that destroying a man’s heritage had made him guest of honour, that his invite served as nothing but a trap for he and his henchmen.

“Can I go too? _Please Mistah’ J_?!”

“Out of the question.” Did she really think they were going to sip drinks and make idle chatter with Gotham’s most boring bunch of pompous pricks?! Is that really what she thought this meeting was about? Harley’s glowing smile vanished, her brows bowed in sadness. _That's exactly what she thought…_ “Look, Harls -- I’ll make it up to you!”

“He don't even wanna go!” She screwed the invite in her fist and tossed it at Yanos’ forehead. “But you’re gonna take _him_ instead? The only time I'm ever gonna get to see one o’ these things -- thanks to **_you_ ** \-- and you're not gonna take me with ya’?!” He could hear the hysterical pitch in her voice, of the oncoming tears and theatrics. “You’re _real cruel_ ya’ know that, you’re a real _piece-a’ work_!”

“Don't throw that at me!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

Yelling, thumping -- feet stamping. Harley’s voice was chalk on a blackboard, Yanos’ tenor was a thunder in the distance. Others joined in the ruckus and gathered at the booth like rabid hounds. Glasses rattled, chairs scraped and screeched as they moved to swarm the situation.

“Don't talk t’ Miss Quinzel like that!”

“She's a lady, show some respect would ya’?!”

“Shut the hell up, th’ lotta ya’ I came here for a quiet night away from my fuckin’ wife, I don't need this shit today.”

Joker stared at the crumbled paper on the table, could just about make out the silver lines of _Oswald Cobblepot_ . His wrists ached, fists clenched so tight his nails cut little crescents into the flat of his palm. The hit Penguin had put out on him… The debacle with Black Mask, The Bat… The bullet… The sheer insult and audacity of his letter-writing pen-pushing invite to Joker. _Attend my yearly shitshow_ \-- “ _a truce”_ \-- _a fucking trap_ . He turned to grip the edges of the pool table, save he got hold of the fingers on Yanos’ hand. Then he would have _real trouble_ getting the girls, right?

“Can we all just try an’ be civil for _f_ ive-fuckin’ minutes man?” Floyd’s voice was strained over the deafening drum of angry _noise_ . Over the shouts and screeching. Over Harley’s wailing, _screaming_ , stamping her heels and marking the freshly varnished woodwork.

Joker flipped. Both his mood, and the pool table, turned in one fluid, flurry of violent fury. Wayne Tower was down, shattered and fizzing. The glasses, coins, cards and trinkets, all cascaded with a mighty **_C R A S H_** onto the floor. Shocked silence ensued, while Joker panted by the upturned pool table. It had been far heavier than it looked. _Christ!_ “If it means so much, you can fucking go. We’ll _all_ go.” He’d need them all there, to get through the torturous event avoiding any _real torture_. As many men as Penguin would warrant entry to.

“I don’t wanna --”

“ **_WE’LL. ALL. GO_ **!”

Yanos backed so far into his booth, his head bashed against the brickwork. “Alright, alright! Whatever you want, boss!”

“Really?!” Harley sniffed, eyes glistening. “Ya’ mean it?”

Joker shook from his outburst of anger, from the strain of the table. Muscles ached against tired bones, cracking his neck to relieve some of the _tension_.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.” Harley hopped over broken glass and spilt liquor, to throw herself into his unexpecting arms. He swayed, almost fell, caught himself -- and _her_ \-- before they tumbled into the shards at their feet. He steadied, and held her, sighing. Harley’s face was buried, her excitable squeals muffled by his clothes (thank _fuck_ ). Though he still shook in his rage, it ebbed at her touch. At the feel of her hands gripping the back of his mac, of her tense and quivering body, feet tapping on the spot where they stood. She _buzzed_.

Pulling away, Harley looked up at him, hopeful. A small and encroaching smile enhanced her gentle features. “Do ya’ think we could go back to my place?” She chewed on her nail with uncertainty. “I'm gonna be in _serious need_ of supplies if I wanna look good fer this thing. My roots are almost _four inches long_ , ‘n I miss my make-up, my moisturiser, my bath bombs, y’know what I mean Mistah’ J?”

Oh, _sure_ he knew what she meant. Moisturizer? _Make-up?_ He knew that it was a _bad idea_ . Like attending the gala was _a bad idea_ . Bath bombs? Not quite the bomb he’d been thinking of. Or the crates stacked full of dynamite stored back at the warehouse. Those could come into _real good use_ at the Iceberg Lounge…  Harley’s eyes were imploring, it tugged at his chest, dulled the ache of his anger. “Why ever not, pumpkin?” He grinned, despite the want to resist her. There was no humour in his tone as he spoke. Nothing good could come of taking Harley back to her home, as harmless as her suggestion was. But with Penguin’s wrath waiting patiently for him on the horizon, _why not_ indeed. “We’ll head out tonight.”

 

♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

 

Harleen was _thrilled_ , humming and singing along to the quiet thrum of the radio, headed to her apartment in East Gotham, she hadn't seen or stepped foot in for weeks since her capture. All that drama felt dated now, compared to what she anticipated, and was just _too excited_ for. It was difficult to think of much of anything else. _That’s right. You heard it here first, folks!_ Harleen Quinzel was going to be attending one of the finest, most talked about, most glamorous events of the year! Cobblepot’s charity galas were a must-attend extravaganza, for all the most loved and desired Gotham City had to offer. Even their _most wanted!_ And Li’l old Harleen was going to be among them. She’d _dreamed_ of such occasions. She’d always thought, once she’d made it **big** , the doors to all the real parties and celebrations, award shows and ceremonies, would have opened to her. That fame would have granted her access. Where she’d always wanted, and willed, to be. Instead, it so happened to be The Joker’s infamy, that had her invited to such a swank event. _Funny, right, how things turn out?_

The Joker didn’t talk much on the journey to her apartment, save for the occasional query about their direction, fingers drumming on the hard leather of the wheel, he would swallow hard and suck his teeth. She could sense his _tenseness_ , see the tightness in his jaw as he drove, how he concentrated far too seriously on the road ahead. Something had him bothered, but he’d agreed to take her back to her apartment regardless. And he’d driven her in silence all the way from Grin n’ Bare It to the shoddy block upon block of cheap housing she lived at -- _had_ lived at. The recognisable, littered streets, the graffiti highlighted like modern at, an urban gallery, by the neon glow of the local motels signage. Harleen smiled. As shitty as it was, it had been _hers_ . As embarrassed as she had been about the place before, she sure did miss it. Those small, home comforts only your own bed, your own home, can possibly provide. _How long had it been?_ She didn’t even know.

It was surreal, heading the flights of stairs to her own front door, followed by a skulking, _sulking_ killer, Gotham’s most wanted criminal, _crime lord_ , the clown prince of crime. He seemed taller, his sharp silhouette only exaggerated, his angular face amplified, by the glowing light and the dark, deep shadows of the old and dated building. He was a devil at the banister, creeping up from behind. The sound of children through the crumbling plastered walls, of TVs blaring, of people arguing, the shapes of couples kissing through cheap, thin curtains -- Harleen was conscious of The Joker’s breathing at her neck.

_If they were noticed…_

Police presence had never been uncommon in her block, and Harleen urged onward at a quicker pace at the mere thought of it. Even if the cops weren’t patrolling, there were so many people stacked up like sardines, all it would take was one or two witnesses. _And she couldn’t be seen with him._ Walking willingly by his side as she did? It was all kinds of wrong and she knew it. When had she stopped resisting the Joker? Had the days, the weeks, maybe _months_ , already addled her moral compass? Harleen glanced back at the clown and he stared right back at her. _Had he been staring the whole way up?_

“Isn’t there an elevator?!” The Joker huffed, eyes narrow as their gazes met. She offered him a small, fleeting simper -- something about his sour attitude, how he clung to his anger like a scorned child, was nothing short of endearing.

“No need, my door’s there--” she pointed a chipped nail (she’d need to collect her polish too) to the third door on their left. It was stripped of all but slithers of pastel pink paint. The rusted brass One and Five, hung limply into the old and splitting wood. The flowers at her sill had died -- that wasn’t down to her absence, they’d been dead long before the Joker has stolen her away. The Joker stood upon her scuffed _home’s where the heart is_ welcome mat, and watched her unblinking as she sifted through the stones in one of her flower pots, retrieving her hidden set of house keys. “ _Tadaa!_ ” She jingled them proudly before heading inside.

It was exactly as she’d left it, save for police tape that strew the walls, the corridor, the doorways. So they’d been back to check her apartment for clues. _How exciting!_ Whoever had rifled through her things hadn’t stripped or torn at any of her belongings. Her collection of books still sat at the coffee table collecting dust, _Italian Bachelor, Redeeming the Rogue Knight_ and _At The Ruthless Billionaire’s Command_ to name a few of the titles she’d fawned, swooned and squealed over, the many nights spent alone on the sofa. She squeaked and slapped at the Joker’s hand, as he rummaged through the romance novels, sneering.

“Get yer stinkin’ hands off those, ya’ perv!”

His thin fingers brushed at his chest, all too gentlemanly. Mocking. “They’re _yours_ , not mine. Ha ha _haa_.”

Clothes littered the floor, outfits tried on and discarded in a rush before night’s out on the town. An old pizza box -- empty -- sat on the table, an open -- empty -- tub of ice cream beside it. It was untidy, _lived in_ , as though she’d only just stepped in and out for all of a second. Yet, it had been so much longer than that. So much longer than she wanted to dwell on. How she’d led her sad and lonely life, had been left in this dusty stillness. Harleen sniffed, it was the dust that was irritating her eyes, had them wet with tears… She hurried on through to her bedroom before the Joker could notice her _spill._

Harleen grabbed for her suitcase, opened it wide on her bed stripped of bed sheets, throwing whatever was closest, whatever she _wanted_ , into the bag. Her bedroom was the smallest in the apartment, the darkest, and quietest. It fit a wardrobe, a dressing table, and enough for a single bed, stocked _full_ of trinkets, memoirs, _mess_ . Plushies watched from the headboard, rested upon her thin, discoloured pillows, as she tore through her belongings, tossing makeup, bleach kits and brushes into her ‘to take’ pile. Cheap jewellery hung from every corner, every curve. She collected as much as she _could_.

Fingers foraging through her drawers for her _nice panties_ (reserved only for those _special occasions_ ) she brushed upon a discarded photo of Mom and Dad, smiling back at her through a smoky polaroid. Harleen sighed, sat back on her haunches and stared at their faces, feeling strangely foreign to the people she most loved -- and _missed_ . But she’d been distancing herself for a _long time_ . Long before the Joker had stepped into her life, she’d been responsible for her loneliness. Too intent on chasing a dream, Harleen had left a lot of what she loved behind. Friends, family. Because they just didn’t _get her_ . _No one did._ Not her friends with their husbands, settled partners, mortgages and children. Not her curly-haired, busybody mother, not her balding matter-of-fact dad. She hadn’t wanted to hear how she “ _needed to get a real job_ ,” how she was “ _too old to be taking these kinds of career risks_ ,” how she just needed to “ _find yourself a nice man and settle down before it’s too late to give me my grandkids, Harleen._ ” She loved them, she did. But she’d just wanted to wait -- just wait that _little longer_ , until she’d made it to show them, show Mom and Dad just how proud they could be of her. Harleen had been ready to make the call -- to tell them how well her show had gone, how she’d send them tickets, to bring _all their friends_ \-- their daughter was a star! But the moment had been and gone, and Harleen was instead a missing person, missing people she’d long left to ambition.

Mom would be worried sick, Harleen knew that much. But would so _love_ the scandal, something to discuss with the nosy neighbours, through tears and tissues at the dining room table. Dad would be smoking too many cigars and tending to their tiny garden. She placed the picture back in her drawer where it belonged. “See ya’ soon,” she muttered into the calm. _Maybe there was still a way to get back in the game._ The Joker was famous, wasn't he?

“Get a load of this, Harls --” Joker stumbled through the little doorway, book in hand and grinning like a Cheshire cat, eyes watery from dry and breathless laughter. “ _She stared longingly into his cerulean orbs, how she so desperately wanted his thick lips on hers. His chest pressed down on her bountiful, bouncing breasts._ Ha, _ha_ , **ha** . _He drove his gargantuan--_ ”

“PUT IT _DOWN_ !” Harleen knocked the book from his open palm, _horrified_ , blushing, mortified. The Joker’s high, scratchy curdling voice was not intended to narrate _that kind_ of content! Her cheeks burned, wanting to slap the stupid grin from his **stupid** face. He’d cheered up, at least. _At least there was that._

“Those aren’t _for you_ ,” she scolded, gathering up the novel and shoving it into her chest of drawers hastily.

“I don’t know --” he eyed her room, “ _gargantuan_ ?” The Joker carried on smiling as he paced the sleight walk-space of her bedroom. He stepped through the litter, eyeing her shelves, her bedside table, clearly on the look-out for _something_ . She cringed at the state of her home, but he didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he just didn’t _care_.

“What do ya’ want?”

“Speaking _of_ gargantuan…” The Joker lifted his Joker plush from her dressing table, the one she’d won at the carnival, and kept ever since, “you’re right, the head is far too big.”  
  
The Joker holding soft-stitched Joker, standing awkwardly in her bedroom, surveying his own merchandise with a curiousness, an expression of pride -- _smugness_ , was as weird as it was strangely wonderful. Despite herself, Harleen smiled, shaking her head. “Told ya’. But now I got ya' together, I kinda see the likeness...”

He pressed the plush up to his cheek for comparison, eyes closed and grinning in Harleen's direction.

"Kinda cute, but mostly creepy Mistah' J."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been ill with flu for a week (and working nonstop) so it's taken a while to get this chapter out. I've noticed that my chapters have been gradually increasing with length and since I'm doing this all for love and practice, I think it's starting to show that it's working! :^)  
> Fun fact: The titles used for the romance novels are all real, I browsed the Mills and Boon websites for the best ones. The part read by J, however, pure fiction. I promise, promise, promise we are getting to the good stuff soon -- I just take the characters development pretty seriously and they're not quite there yet. Almost! Hope you're still enjoying the ride, anyways! Love, love, love, L x
> 
> ( seriously, come chat with me at madluv.tumblr.com sometime! )


	19. IN COSTUME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Harleen buzzed with anticipation, a bundle of nerves as she hurriedly swapped outfit after outfit in the small section of the warehouse she had claimed as her own, and with her best effort, had attempted to make homely during her stay. Red curtains had been hoisted up for privacy in the corner, and were currently pulled taut as she dressed and undressed, a continuous trial and error that had taken hours of costume change after costume change, cursing and discarding her garments in turn. Harleen had already rummaged through all she’d been able to pack from her apartment days prior, and nothing in her possession suited the event they were due to attend. Nothing was sleek enough, stylish enough,  _ stunning _ enough to wear striding through the doors of the Iceberg Lounge. Even the luxurious and sparkling gown the Joker had given her, had been fine for the diner, but was far too noticeably  _ singed _ for such a classy occasion as this one.

She was stressing silently, swore irritability at the mess strewn across the bed and the floor. She’d long dreamed of attending a gala like this, where all of Gotham’s most _ loved _ and elite, the richest and most famous would show face and donate to a cause, pretending for one night to care for the plight of the poor, gaining plentiful good PR in the process. She’d spent time practicing her posture and speech in preparation for something like this ever since childhood, in bathroom mirrors pretending to answer pressing red carpet questions. How she had sat on her cold toilet seat after dark, talking into the quiet night as though perched on a chair and entertaining a chat show hosts and a live, loving audience. How she’d always wanted that level of fame, to go shoulder to shoulder with the celebrities and  _ very important persons _ of Gotham City, all the partying under chandeliers and sipping champagne in velvet chairs. Harleen needed to look her best tonight, and though she would be arriving on the arm of the Joker, didn’t mean she had to be the butt of their jokes. It was her time to shine,  _ sparkle _ and sip on the champers too, and with the Joker as her chaperone, she’d certainly be the center of attention! Having been swiped from the stage, Harleen was still talk of the town, was she not?

“Harley!?” Even just a passing thought of the devil, and  _ he _ appeared! His voice was high, shrill and full of enthusiasm, “I’ve found  _ just the thing _ for you to wear tonight–”

She gave a breathy sigh of relief, so the Joker may have solved her dilemma, having been sent off to help find her something  _ fitting _ . Harleen pulled back the curtain, draping it under her armpit to hide her greying underwear. She blushed despite herself, the moment the Joker laid eyes on her and smiled. There was a genuine twinkle of happiness upon looking at her, that lacked the madness or  _ sickness _ she’d seen there before. His bruises were fading. Harleen’s heart fluttered. “Can I see, Mistah’ J?”

He hurried over, hanger and suit cover in tow, with his smile only growing, he appeared pleased with what he had to show her. Harleen held her breath, anxious, but mostly excited. As spontaneous and sporadic as the Joker was, he hadn’t failed her yet when offering up gifts with style. He fumbled with the zip, giggling to himself, and she raised a brow at his odd and suspect humour.

“What do you think, Harls?”

He revealed to her a tuxedo suit, black velvet blazer, straight velvet pants, a crisp white shirt and a red bowtie. Round red groucho glasses stuck out of the front pocket. The ensemble was accompanied by a bowler hat.  _ Ridiculous. _ Harleen laughed, “you’re going like  _ that _ ?” He would, if anything, get the crowd talking. “ _ Haha _ ! Very funny.” She couldn’t help but match his smile.

The Joker laughed along with her, wiping an invisible tear from his eye. “Oh no,  _ no _ , no, Harley. This is for  _ you _ .”

_ What? _

“Is this another one of yer pranks?” Harleen knew who she was talking to, r _egardless_ , it wasn’t the least bit _entertaining_. And the Joker smiled at her widely, as though he was expecting a different response. She pulled the curtain up to her neck, shying from the costume offered out to her. _Please tell me that you’re jokin’._ He held out the hanger eagerly. _You're not._ “No _way_ , jose. Nah- _ah_. _Not happenin’_.” She _wanted_ to be angry, wanted to shout and stamp her foot stubbornly, but the absurdity of his request had her _stunted_. “You can’t be _serious_?”

“You wanted to go, this is what you wear,” The Joker stated simply, as though his suggestion was completely sound of mind.

Harleen scoffed, “what's wrong with a dress?” She fully realised his  _ ‘uniqueness _ ’, figured a friendly nudge in another direction couldn't hurt, right?

But the Joker laughed --  _ really laughed _ \-- clutching at his belly, he shook with hysterics at her question, stabbing a finger in her direction, in stitches. “Now who's making the jokes?!” His smile was wide and toothy. “You're on missing posters plastered all over the city, you think you're just gonna be able to stroll in the front doors? Ha, ha,  _ haaaaaaaaarley _ you're killin’ me!”

Her breaths were shallow, swallowed whole by a wave of disappointment. A wave of realism, offered matter-of-factly by a murderous clown. Hours of outfit swaps, years of dreams, shattered by a madman waving at her, a suit, a bowtie and ridiculous spectacles. It was hard to see sense, had always been. Her mother had always said she needed to ‘be more realistic.’ When announcing her want to act, when attending auditions, when entertaining directors… Of course she couldn't walk the red carpet, a hostage draped in the arms of her captor and posing coyly for the cameras to capture the thrill and excitement coursing through her veins. “But--” tears crept the corners of her eyes, before they could spill, the Joker had hooked her chin and thumbed her cheek. His grin wide and unwavering.

“Ah, ah, _ah_ ,” he clicked his tongue and Harleen was caught in the unblinking gaze of his eyes, “it wouldn't be worth getting dolled up, _doll_ \--” His free fingers snapped, and held in the palm of his hand, Harleen watched as his close circle of henchmen lined up before the couple, dressed in the same costume the Joker offered her, but hoisted in their arms, crates of -- what was scribed in vibrant wet paint -- BANG! _BANG!_ **BOOM!** some of the shipment they had been sitting on for weeks, boxes upon boxes of _explosives_. 

Harleen had quickly submitted to the Joker's choice of disguise, had pinned and slicked back her hair with gel Yanos had provided. Her makeup was subtle, a _ u naturale _ , foundation she applied to hide her smattering of freckles, to try and dull the dewy femininity of her face. She noticed how the Joker too wore a foundation of his own, covering, best he could, the deathly white of his skin. His mouth was smeared still, red with lipstick, very unlike her own she’d had to pat down with powder to hide any womanly  _ pink _ . There was a pang of jealousy, to see him dressed so extravagantly, looking grand against a gang of suited goons. His purple garb glittered, his grin gleamed, Harleen was both angry and intrigued. For the hundredth time, the Joker caught her staring and his smile was irritably smug. So the criminal was going to upstage the starlet. She seethed, her cheeks hot under the caking of makeup, and the Joker strode over, to grace her with his presence, as grandiose as Harleen had come to expect from him.

“Not  _ bad _ ,” his voice was deep, warm and tickling against her already fiery face -- he was an inch from her mouth, the small curves of his lips playful and joking as he eyed her intensely. Harleen sucked in to avoid him stealing her breath, furious,  _ entranced _ , and stuck to the spot. “Suits you,” he told her, a giggle low in his throat. “But you’re missing something.”

Harleen sighed despite herself, as the Joker grabbed her waist and pulled her roughly into his arms. He never once blinked or lost the dark humour that curved his sharp face like a mask. Her heart hammered as his head bowed, a hand wound around her neck like the moment he’d caught her in the carpark. His laugh vibrated through her chest, but instead of his mouth -- what she’d expected -- what she  _ wanted _ \-- his other wandering hand was about her mouth, just as he’d muffled her desperate screams before. He didn’t kiss her, not even a brush of his bottom lip against her own, not even a tickle of a kiss at her cheek to leave a marking of crimson. His hand gripped her jaw, clamped tight. His laugh was louder, bolder, higher -- taken by such surprise, all she could do was surrender.

But as quick as the strangeness had come, it left, and the Joker pulled away to reveal he’d plastered something under her nose. Her fingers flew up to feel the hair stuck above her top lip -- and she  _ groaned  _ \-- no groan of pleasure -- to realise he’d stuck a false moustache onto her face in order to  _ complete _ her manly disguise.  _ Of course.  _

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Happy, Yanos, Frog and Nick took to the van stacked with the boxes of dynamite, dividing off to detour before their final destination, the Iceberg Lounge. Harley joined Joker in the back of a sleek Aston Martin, Claus at the wheel and Floyd shotgun, Joker would need the  _ extra hands-on-guns _ if it turned to trouble before they were able to enter the Penguin’s prestigious event. Precaution was necessary, knowing and willingly walking into such a trap as this. He sensed the nerves in his men, how quietly they crept on the road, never breaching the speed limit, eyes on each and every truck that came to cruise along beside. Joker doubted ambush driving through the city, fingers tapping impatiently on the leather, he eyed the streets -- could already sense the change, of  _ tables turning _ . Taking a hit at another Cobblepot property was going to propel the city into outright gang warfare. Harley, however, was  _ oblivious _ , smiling idly underneath a stupid moustache, excited and not quite comprehending what they were about to walk into. She was ready to meet and greet with all the real criminals, the politicians, celebrities, tax dodgers, while Joker and his men were ready to cut, be cut, and  _ bleed _ .

They parked behind the Lounge, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the red carpeted entrance, where hungry journalists gathered and foamed at the mouth. Despite the situation, and the  _ grave danger _ therein, Joker was in high spirits -- wound tight with uncoiled  _ anger,  _ eager for revenge -- eager to make staple, an example of Oswald Cobblepot. He turned, finally, to Harley, and addressed her quietly, distractedly, “don’t speak to anyone,  **don’t** leave Claus’s side.” Joker patted the huge man’s shoulders, to prove his sturdy, solid build. “On my signal, you’ll have two minutes to  _ get out -- _ and I advise you make it snappy,” he giggled, but didn’t smile once. “I don’t fancy the clean-up!  _ Ha _ .”

Harley’s eyes were wide, her smile faltered, she grew  _ suddenly _ serious. “An’ what’s the signal?”

“You’ll know,” he winked, as they each hopped from the car, his direction well and truly  _ understood _ . He could tell from Harley’s unease, she didn’t  _ want _ to know.

He heard Harley’s breath still as they entered the Lounge through the backdoors, her eyes lit up and the worry on her face vanished, distracted instantly by the chandeliers, the croon of music from the venue, the many faces of fame, fortune, success and scandal. She was eager to take a champagne glass, and drain deep from the chalice to calm herself. Joker scanned the crowd, lip curled in distaste at the falseness, the pretense, the  _ play pretend _ \-- not even remotely humoured by the fake laughter, fake smiles and plastic faces. A mockery of what was real, and raw for him. And Joker sought only one of these faces. One that didn’t quite fit with those it surrounded itself. Joker shoved the tray of bubbly, snarling and pulling Harley through the swelling, chattering crowd.

He was soon to spot the Penguin, hacking a throaty laugh above the jazz band music. A large man, suit expensive and personally tailored in attempt to  _ flatter  _ his round and disproportionate figure. His eyes were small and beady, nose curved from breakage after breakage. Scars bubbled at his neck, a nick in his eyebrow, an old gorge of a wound curved at his right eye, leaving one of them milky -- the other gleaming and  _ black _ . He was  _ ugly _ . Ugly in a way, men’s appearances tend to reflect their  _ insides _ . He was weathered, busted and old -- but as much as Joker loathed to admit, compelling, charming, equally as vile, as calculating, as  _ vicious _ . The droves of celebrity mass could sense his dangerous nature, flocked around like pigeons mistaking a vulture as one of their own. He would pick their carcasses clean just the same. Joker sneered at the setting before him, both vengeful, and  _ jealous _ . 

“ _ Ew _ \--” Harley’s statement upon seeing the host in the flesh did much to quell his temper, and Joker laughed.

“Oswald!” Joker stepped forward, still on the tail end of his laughter, arms wide and welcoming, he parted the audience, leaving Harley behind. Some gasps, of shock, some squeals of excitement. The Joker -- the most terrible, theatrical and **infamous** of them all, had entered their midsts. He smiled widely, his signature, for the wide eyes, bowing left, right and then centre, and low, for the Penguin, whose own laughter had stopped the moment he’d come forward. _Ha ha haaaaaaa._ He was toothy, tense, shoulders rigid and smile solid. “Long time old friend, did you _miss me_?” 

Cobblepot had to use his umbrella to hoist himself from the deep cushions of his seat, chuckling a hollow, choking sound. The umbrella acted as a cane, to balance his unsteady limbs, and he too opened his arms in a gesture of  _ welcomeness _ . “You came by not too long ago -- it was  _ unfortunate _ that I had  _ other business _ to attend to.”

“I was just as  _ disappointed _ !” Joker spoke, shrill and exaggerated, he could see the Penguin’s subtle  _ cringe _ even through the low lighting of the Lounge. “Who  _ wouldn’t _ want to see  _ your face _ ?” His hand rested against his chest, faking sincerity. But Joker’s voice dipped, and scratched at his throat. “I  _ burned _ with longing.” Ignorant laughter from the crowd littered Joker’s words. Unaware of the true heat between their host and his  _ guest of honour _ , of bullets and blazes. Of firearms and  _ fire _ , that had engulfed Cobblepot’s manor and turned it to cinder.

“Indeed. It’s been  _ too long _ . We have much to catch up on. Care to talk in privacy?” Cobblepot remained composed with his question, the one Joker knew would come. The Penguin no longer chortled, his expression  _ calm _ , his eyes endlessly  _ cold _ . It bought an endless  _ joy _ to Joker, however, to see how his words affected him so.

“You spoil me, Oswald!” Joker exclaimed, hands clasped together, he could see Penguin’s tuxedo-donning goons closing in on the crowd, but dressed like the servers, blended into the scenery, on stand-by,  _ just in case _ the clown decided not to go willingly on Cobblepot’s request. “You generous man,  _ you _ !” Joker grinned. Couldn’t help but enjoy the subtle sadness, the hidden fury of the Penguin, to have goaded and hurt him.  _ Good. _

The patrons ‘ _ oh’d _ ’ in disappointment at the notion of the Penguin and the Joker leaving them to mingle -- but with fresh trays of champers, wines and canopies, they were quickly distracted and scattered to new company. Harley went to follow, obvious concern etched on her features. She didn’t attempt to hide it from him. But Joker caught her wrist before she took ahold of his lapels, and told her firmly, a quiet whisper. “ _ Stay with Claus _ .” Her little lips trembled, and it  _ twanged _ in his chest. “I’d love to  **stay and chat** , but I really  _ moustache _ ...” A pun, but gruff and she wilted from his grip, offering only a nod. Joker was accompanied then, by men in tuxedos, pressing him to  _ hurry it along _ , The Penguin waiting patiently at the edge of the room. Joker turned only once, to look back at her, downing another glass of champagne, and then lost to the bustle.  _ Stay with Claus. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that this chapter took so long to be updated -- and it isn't even that long :^(
> 
> It's just real-life has really been kicking my ass of late. This project is very much a-go still, I just haven't had the time to really get down and write. I don't often talk about my feelings etc. but I get terrible mood swings and behavioural changes -- to not go into too much detail, because, who cares tbh!? This, however can sometimes hold me back from projects for weeks on end. . . I've also quit my job. I can't even go into the sheer level of AWFUL that had me quit my job of six and half years, but I am still working a month's notice -- and also am looking for other work in the meantime, so that has taken up a lot of time ( not to mention, it's been very chaotic ). Last but not least, I am in a loving, amazing LDR and that when I have had any free time of late ( not much of it ) that immediately goes into my relationship first! I'm sure you all get that :^)
> 
> I know I don't need to explain myself, but I want to. I would rather more of a connection with my readers than a "here ya' go" each update -- since some of you have been really, really supportive, and that has helped me to write more than I can remember in such a long time. If any of you ever want to chat, come find me at madluv.tumblr.com - I've heard from some of you, I'd love to hear from others!
> 
> Anyways, sorry for all the boring -- I hope the chapter is at least passable until the next update! No kisses yet! And thank you SO MUCH for all of your patience and support. Mad love, L x


	20. SHOW BUSINESS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no business like **show business**.

Necking back another glass of champagne, Harleen sunk into the crowd that had gathered in the absence of the two criminal celebrities. The Penguin, and of course, the Joker, who had moved on to Cobblepot’s own personal quarters somewhere in the many levels of the Iceberg Lounge. On to discuss  _ whatever it was _ that criminals liked to discuss through gritted teeth and false smiles. Not so fond of the thought of the spotlight -- not with a fake mink moustache tickling her top lip (or the badly tailored suit) -- Harleen shrunk away, dipped out of sight and headed directly for the bar. There was at least  _ some  _ hope of enjoying this once in a lifetime experience, dowsed with drink, not  _ quite _ how she’d always imagined it, but bubbly was bubbly and it would ease her nerves nonetheless. It would have been an altogether different experience alongside the Joker, his natural charisma, natural  _ charm _ had her feeling oddly comfortable, regardless of her stupid costume, regardless of the strange, sad and altogether  _ severe  _ situation she had been living now for quite some time. When he was with her, the Joker made everything feel  _ acceptable _ , as Harleen had to quickly accept and embrace his sporadic, spontaneous  _ quirks _ as though they were the social norm. Somehow, immediately after his exit with the Penguin, she missed it. Missed the way in which the Joker could turn the eyes of the crowd without barely raising his voice, and with a simple fleeting smile could have the crowd swooning or screaming.  _ Either or. _ That she too, suddenly missed the spectacle that was the clown prince of crime.

The gala she’d longed to attend since childhood felt dreary and dead without his callous grin and mean-spirited jokes. “Get a grip would ya’,” Harleen told herself harshly, ordering a scotch or two to pass the time. Sighing, propping her elbows up on the bar, Harleen waited for the Joker’s signal -- whatever the signal was going to be -- threw back another shot and watched the celebrations continue for the rich and the famous. Noticed each and every greeting grin turn to curling lips and rolling eyes as soon as gazes passed and people parted. She’d seen such expressions before, at auditions and when meeting with cast members. She felt almost thankful, strangely, to be dressed in disguise.

 

_ The minute ya’ walked in the joint, _

_ I could see ya’ were a man of distinction, _

_ A real big spenda’… _

 

A low and husky voice drawled from the stage where the crowd had grown thick with bodies. A voice Harleen recognised, but didn’t instantly place -- the applauding audience drew her attention to the spot where Penguin had sat, upon a prop of a throne, where a very distinctive, immediately recognisable, flawless as always, Peyton Riley now draped herself over, legs flashing from the slipping hem of her dress. Her dress that glimmered and glinted in red, shimmered like scales on the fishtail of a mermaid.  _ She’d always hated fish!  _ A vintage silver microphone hung loose in her hand, hung above the vibrant red of her lipstick, dangling tantalisingly, her eyes lidded and lustful with every syllable sung.

Harleen saw red alright! Not the same bright, bold red of the drapes, the throne, the sexy dress -- but a red as deep and rich as blood. Anger bubbled up from her stomach, vile tastes rolled on her tongue, and rising acid burned her throat. She felt  _ sick _ \-- a vicious, instant nausea that struck the moment she laid eyes on Peyton Riley performing the racy number. Even the hot syrupy shot of scotch couldn’t wash down the bitter  _ loathing.  _ This was far worse than the poster nicked by knives back in the Joker’s office, this was a living, breathing nightmare manifesting itself inside a dream she’d always aimed for.  _ Replaced.  _ Well and truly outdone. Had the Joker not ransacked her moment on stage,  _ this _ stage at the Iceberg Lounge would have also been Harleen’s to parade. Riley had slotted into her life, into her role, and no one seemed to notice.  _ No one.  _ Harleen had faded from Gotham’s thoughts and minds. “That  _ hussy! _ ” She whispered harshly, hardly able to form the words from a jaw so hard and clenched.

“I wish,  _ damn, _ ” a man, turned to face Peyton’s flirty performance, raised a drink and agreed with a filthy laugh, a hiccup. “You don't even know the half of it!” Perched on a bar stool, he swivelled to meet with Harleen, squinted, brows rocketing up and into his hairline. “Hang on -- do I know you?”

Harleen’s breath haltered, the rage burning in the pit of her bones extinguished with an icy hiss. A tiny, sharp intake of air -- she stared, horrified at the recognition. Her director. Whom she hadn’t seen for  _ how long? _ He’d since grown a beard, more lines creased the edges of his eyes. His crooked teeth had been fixed and capped, stark white and shiny. Sudden celebrity status seemed to have both improved  _ and  _ aged him. He looked quite different from the man she'd slept with -- wore a suit more expensive than those he wore when taking her out, but no matter his style, was still just as sleazy. His half smile, his slitted eyes, he barely saw her through his drunken state and stumbled. “Let me guess, I owe you money?”

_How dare he?!_ The disguise wasn't _that_ good! Insult to injury, salt on the wound, the director she'd fucked on more than one occasion couldn't see through the fake facial hair, the cheap and cheerful costume. Didn't recognise her bright, round eyes, her soft round features. She'd worked with him on the show for months -- and they'd had their many _moments_ throughout! “No!” Harleen squeaked, her voice higher and more strained than she could have hoped.

He laughed, the same laugh he used when dealing with awkward auditions, just enough to  _ shame _ and humiliate those surely trying. “Oh, good!” To Harleen’s horror he clinked her glass with his own, and she felt the scene fall away, the siren’s song of Peyton Riley fade into the distance -- she stood in a spotlight all of her own, but the curtains had fallen, the show was over.

“I've been trying to woo her for weeks,” he slurred, “she just kept telling me she's happily engaged. Not that it matters in  _ this town _ , all these models and actress types, they’ll do  _ anything  _ to get off the street and onto the stage. I offered her everything in hopes she’d consider me. She's one tough girl to crack -- and look at her,  _ damn _ .”

Harleen’s heart sank to the deepest, darkest place, and pumped so painfully, she was sure she could still feel where the bullet had buried itself. But the bullet was nothing on  _ this _ . The terrible sadness was outweighed by her shock, and she stood staring alongside him at Riley ruling the set. 

 

_ So let me get right to the point! _

_ I don't pop my cork for ev’ry guy I see! _

_ Hey big spenda’ _

_ Hey big spenda’ _

_ HEY, BIG SPENDA’ _

 

_ Spend a l’il time with me _

 

The cheers fizzed like white noise as Peyton blew kisses and winked to the dizzied, dapper crowd. Despite the anger, the poisonous jealousy that had her stomach turning, Harleen’s eyes were dry and fixed on the face of her understudy. It all made sense to her now. Why Joker had ransacked her performance, taken civilian casualties, destroyed her dreams and capsized her career. It was all she could think to do with Peyton Riley, the one who had  _ replaced  _ her, the one who had really ruined Harleen Quinzel.

“Are you sure I don't know you from somewhere?”

“No, you don't know me  _ at all _ .” 

 

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“You all ask yourselves why Oswald Cobblepot has money, why Oswald Cobblepot is the richest and most successful kingpin in Gotham City, you all ask yourselves how Oswald Cobblepot could  _ possibly  _ afford such a bounty for the Joker’s head! But not one of you,  _ not a single one, _ considers this. The straw-brained Scarecrow, the insufferable Riddler, not even the the char-grilled ex DA gets it. I don't play  _ games _ , Joker, I run a well established business. I give to the community and the community _giveth_ back. I am celebrated,  _ awarded,  _ enjoyed and included. I don't play silly buggers like the rest of you -- costumed and gallivanting the streets like children  _ of course _ you’ll never reach my kind of success --”

Joker laughed, though badly timed, it broke through Cobblepot’s lengthy speech, loud and barking. He had been listening --  _ half listening --  _ since it was hard to stay focused on the droning when surrounded by goons clutching semi-automatics. Meanwhile, his own men were siphoning off to plant explosives, Penguin was distracted and going on and on (and on and on), what with Joker willingly waltzing into his reach, Cobblepot was running his mouth, and clearly savouring the moment. He was tunnel-visioned by revenge, taking Joker down to an empty function room, one purely meant for ‘business' of a more unsavoury,  _ not entirely legal _ type. Joker recognised the decor, he'd been here once or twice before.

The Penguin took a seat at the long table first, where business was always discussed,  and Joker, as invited, followed suit. All Joker had to do now was bide his time, keep Cobblepot interested long enough for the explosives to be set beneath the Iceberg Lounge, in the cellar and viewing booths, in the bowels of the building. All this  **big talk** from Cobblepot, and he hadn't a  _ clue. “ _ You  _ got me _ !” Joker giggled, “I'm practically useless!”

The Penguin smiled, a wide, sharp mouth, flashing a row of tiny, thin, uneven teeth. There were shadows in his beetle-black eyes, cast from the smoky yellow light, carved harsh caverns in his already sharpened face. “You're a  _ dead man _ , is what you are,” he croaked, a hacking chuckle. He gave one quick and subtle nod to the men at his side.  _ Shit --  _ Before Joker had time to reach for his gun, his arms were strapped solidly either side, his thighs held fast to the seat of the chair. Cobblepot’s tuxedo-donning lackeys had Joker constricted with thick leather straps, pulled taught by their massive fists, he could barely squirm in their bondage.

“At the very least take me to dinner first!” Joker exclaimed, as one of them proceeded to search his jacket. They proceeded, roughly, to disarm both him and his pistol. The bullets clattered on the marble, the chamber emptied. “ _ Rude. _ ”

“I would have been willing to forgive you breaking into my club, had we come to some  _ other  _ arrangements. But my  _ home? _ ” Penguin shook his head gravely, clicking his tongue and wagging his finger. “I don’t know when you decided it’d be a good idea to start shit with  _ me _ , Joker -- but I intend to end it. I have business to attend, a charity auction to host. Let's make this quick.”

_ Host?!  _ Again Joker struggled to stifle a laugh. “They're really scraping the barrel these days --  _ ah!  _ And speaking of barrels --”

Penguin had been handed a shotgun off the wall, previously mounted as a feature piece against aged, smoke stained wallpaper. It was now instead aimed threateningly towards Joker’s face. The barrel chested, suit donning Penguin hoisted the gun, even the hefty, weighty look of the old fashioned weapon looked like an ornate toy in his thick, scarred and misshapen knuckles. “I’m going to do my  _ one good deed  _ for Gotham here and now. Rid the city of this vermin scum.” He chuckled as he teased a fat finger on the trigger, eyes glimmered as he stared Joker down. “Nothing personal,” he growled, knowing full well  _ everything  _ about this was personal. “We just don't see eye to eye, you and I.”

“Not unless I'm sitting down!” Joker grinned. 

 

_ Crack! _

 

Joker’s head was thrown back, neck crunching,  _ cringing _ , pain burst up through his jaw and rattled his teeth. Penguin hadn't even used the shotgun as his fists were  _ just as lethal.  _ It wasn't the first time Joker had experienced it, and he didn't rate it.  _ Christ… _ The pain lingered, hot and throbbing to the bruised bone. Cobblepot exploded with laughter and the lackeys were quick to follow their leader’s cue, until the peals of fake chuckles roused Joker from his stunned seconds of blotted, blackening vision, laughing along with them.

“You’re gone  _ too far _ this time!” Penguin hissed, spittle on his lips, adjusting the gun against the solid, sturdy support of his shoulder. “I’m gonna do what I've wanted to do for  _ too long _ !” And Cobblepot clearly savoured the scene, Joker strapped before him, choking as he chuckled. “Any last words?”

**R r r r r r r r r - r r r r o o o o - b o o o m !**

“What’s that noise?” Joker piped up, thrilled with the sound of a deep and reverberating rumbling coming from the foundations of the club. The Iceberg Lounge shook with the sound of it, windows rattled in their wooden frames, paintings wriggled and rocked from the walls, glasses clinked and clattered, vibrating over the surface of the solid marble. Joker's men had clearly breached the bowels of the building, and having set the sticks and sticks of dynamite, had already blown out a wall or two. Joker could feel the blasts through the floor, felt the building tremble from the internal assault. He laughed, loudly, to witness Cobblepot’s sharp and smug expression fall, turned soft and doughy with shock.

“What have you done?” There was a tremor of fury -- and fear -- that warbled in the fat man’s voice. Even if Penguin were to send a shell into Joker’s skull now, he would surely die satisfied.

The sprinklers started from the ceiling, screams erupted from the floors below as the second round of  **boom - boom - boom !** shook the club to its core. The gala, what had been in full swing, had flown into chaos, and Joker revelled in knowing he'd finally made it a must-attend event. All the champagne and caviar in the world couldn't compete with the adrenaline inducing actions of the Joker and his plotting. People were screaming, screeching, their feet thundered as rampant as the set explosives blowing the levels beneath to smithereens! Neither Joker or Penguin needed to witness the devastation, the sounds alone proved Joker’s sabotage to be an all-round  _ success. _

The shotgun slumped in Cobblepot’s grip, teeth ground he yelled instruction to his men. “Find them! Stop them!” His hollow eyes sought Joker, wide and glaring, “as for  _ you--”   _ he huffed, strode forward and landed another fist -- another  _ and another  _ \-- against Joker’s jaw and nose.

The pain was immense, blotting the moment and memory briefly from his mind. Joker reeled back from the sheer force of each brain damaging blow, and the chair came with, crashing to the floor and releasing him, crumpled and dazed. As painful as it was, the flashes of Penguin’s snarling features made it all worth it. They scrapped, clawed and raked through the tremors of the ongoing attack, until the floor opened up and they plummeted downward in the throes of their fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this chapter (I feel I say this every chapter, but still) -- I've been working on it for _ages_ while in between travelling to work (three and a half hour commute!) staying at my boss's place midweek, on top of some terrible, lonely and miserable moods. Writing for me is a hobby and escape, but sometimes I just can't get the time to do it, or other times, the writing just doesn't come to me. :( But it's here, finally! _Yay!_ Thank you for all your patience, hope you like this most recent chapter to the Infamous saga. Thank you for your ongoing support, kudos and comments! All the mad love, L x


	21. BREAKOUT STAR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ratings for this gala were sure _BLOWN_ out of proportion!

Crystal chandeliers quivered and clicked as a rumbling quaked through the building. Startling all of those that were cramped inside. Having been enjoying a classy affair and casual entertainment, they were now scrambling for cover at the distinct sound of distant explosions. Sharp gasps and screams pierced the unsuspecting audience, and with a hand gripped tightly around her empty champagne glass, Harleen could only assume the Joker’s onslaught on the Iceberg Lounge was proving a success… Though her palms were sweaty, and palpitations were sickening, Harleen secretly savoured in the confused and crushed expression of her rival. Peyton Riley was stumbling in her red dress, microphone squealing as it dropped to the floor – the stage shook and turned to shambles as another shock-wave rattled the foundations. The sophisticated visage of the evening was instantly thrown aside by the Joker’s antics elsewhere. Harleen slunk against the bar for balance, felt a pleasant smugness to see her director cowering there, his fear present and poignant. Despite herself, despite the situation, Harleen felt the pull of a smile in her cheeks.  _ Serves ‘em right!  _ The satisfaction of seeing both her enemies scared half to death by the Joker’s sabotage attempt almost outweighed her own alarm at the scene.  _ Almost _ . Still, breath caught in her chest as another bomb blew from somewhere below, splitting concrete and cracking windows, shards spraying and stinging the screeching crowd.

“What the fuck is happening?!” The director whispered, wild-eyed. Even hazed by whisky, he was rattled with fear. Harleen slunk down against the bar, a shield against the shattering glass. She dared not peek over at the panic erupting, instead squatting beside the director to catch her shallow breath.

“I don't know,” Harleen lied, consciously an octave or two lower, sweeping debris from her ugly suit, she avoided his eye-line.

“What do we  _ do _ ?!”

Harleen sighed aloud -- a jealous sickness still squirmed in the pit of her stomach. She had no sympathy or comfort to offer him.  _ Not that he deserved it! _ She just wanted this night to be over, already having seen enough (and that had been  _ before _ the bombs had started blowing!) “We wait for the signal,” Harleen said to herself. Whatever  _ that _ would be. All Harleen wanted was for the Joker to appear and pull her from this place. She'd even thank him profusely for the dumb disguise as soon as they made it back to the safety of the warehouse.

Harleen had expected sparkling dresses, stark smiles and sophistication but had instead found herself a pit of pretty snakes. The visage had shattered the moment Riley had taken the stage, just as she'd taken her role, her job, her future. Harleen might have arrived with a crook, the biggest of them all, but at least he was a brutally honest about it. He might have had a knife at her throat once or twice, but theirs sat firm and aching at her spine.

“A-- a signal?! Like an alarm?! Police sirens?!”

The director’s warbling whine snapped Harleen from her sombre thoughts, and without thinking it came as a whispered hiss, “will you  _ shut up _ ?!” She paused. “Please?” He was too scared to appear offended and nodded dully at her instruction. Slinking against the woodwork he seemed suddenly smaller, regular. The man she'd sought so hard to impress (the man she'd bent over backwards for quite literally!) was far from the famed director who had lorded over her on stage and scrutinised her every move. There was a warm and pleasant smugness in her gut. “Good, well -- thanks!”

It was then, without warning, sprinklers burst to soak the glamorous guest-list, and though there was not yet fire in the main rooms hosting the gala, smoke had crept up the stairwells and set them off. Harleen looked over the bar at people rushing through the building in search of exits and safety, the buffet was overturned, glass littered the red carpet and crunched beneath slipping heels. Funny how they fled the water to save their hair and make-up faster than they'd hid from the sound of explosives. “C’mon,” Harleen pulled the director up along with her, he was shaking and sobbing by the time she'd got him to stand. It was terrible, she  _ knew _ it was terrible, but she sure missed the Joker in all this mess.

“This is awful -- just  _ awful _ ,” he continued to mutter a constant mantra at her ear.

_Oh, thank god --_ Finally a hulking frame she recognised appeared amidst the wreckage of the shaken room. The giant of a man offered one simple smile, of what looked like relief, to having found Harleen unharmed. Claus, in three massive strides, was beside them, glancing at her company with a questioning eyebrow raised. She was certain if he ever spoke, he'd utter _who’s this loser?_ And Harleen herself felt much the same about it.

“Boy, am I glad to see  _ you _ !” Harleen announced in her terrible scratchy  _ man-voice _ , punching Claus’ massive bicep for added  _ manly _ effect. But he gripped her arm in the usual, rough goon fashion and pulled her without a warning. “Hey! Watch it will ya’ --” again to the swiping imagined dust from her two piece. She shuffled best she could from his grip, caught the expression across Claus’ face, where his small smile had turned to something s _ evere _ . She felt her heart take a sickening leap into the cavern of her chest. She was  _ scared _ . And so she should’ve been, as she watched in silent horror, Claus pull a pistol from his inner pocket and load a clip with a satisfied  _ click _ . He pulled at her arm again and slapped the weapon into her palm, squeezing it tight. Harleen swallowed. Suddenly this was altogether more serious than donning a suit and gatecrashing a gala. This wasn't much fun anymore…

“Oh  _ shit _ \-- are you one of  _ them _ ?” The director’s shaky question tore her from her staring, and she saw the uncertainty in his twitching eyes. How he looked from her to Claus, lip trembling. His arms lifted slowly in a show of surrender.

“Don't shoot!” A voice unlike the director’s -- stern and husky -- made her demands from the crippled, crumpled stage. Dress hoisted to her silky thighs, face full of strength and determination, Riley had pulled herself free of the shoddy set, and turned her attention to the three of them still gathered at the bar. Harleen's blood boiled to see her standing proudly despite the dust and glass that had ruined her clothes and grazed her cheek. Harleen could feel herself shaking, with fear but mostly  _ anger _ .

“I wasn't --” Harleen's voice cracked, higher than anticipated.  _ Damnit!  _ And then deeper. “I wasn't going to!” The gun felt heavier than it had. “So if ya’ don't mind!”

“Let him go, we won't resist!” Riley’s hands went up too, along with the remaining congregation of her crowd, all folded and crouched like hostages at the edge of the collapsed stage, soaked through and shaking. “Take whatever you want!”

_ How am I the bad guy?! _ Harleen couldn't believe it! She'd been living as the Joker's prisoner for  _ months _ ! And somehow, suddenly,  _ she _ was an accomplice?! How had the woman who had stolen  _ her life _ become the voice of sense and superiority? “I haven't done  _ anythin _ ’!” The group, the director and Peyton Riley all flinched at Harleen's words, conscious and cautious of the guns she and Claus both carried.

“Okay,  _ okay _ , let’s all stay calm,” Riley spoke slowly, and the remaining audience clung to her instruction. “We won't resist,” she repeated, “you can put down the gun.” The people looked up to Peyton upon her pedestal of rubble, still admiring the show.

Harleen laughed loudly. She wasn't even holding it  _ high _ ! This was all one big misunderstanding!  _ She  _ was the victim here, at the wrong place, the wrong time -- with the  _ wrong  _ person in her shoes!

“Please, put down the gun,” pleaded the director, repeating the same unnecessary instruction.

Her attention snapped from Riley to his, with the pistol pointed at his abdomen Harleen warned, face flushed with embarrassment and fury, “don't you tell me  _ what to do _ .”

Before she'd even processed her actions, the room froze in shock, erupted with gasps and the sudden sucking through teeth. The air was still and stagnated, a fist clamped around her lungs and suffocated. The realisation she stood at the  _ other end  _ of the gun, where the barrel aimed lazily at his midriff. She was taken aback by the sheer and utter terror that flitted across his face and drained it of colour. His pupils were saucers, focused solely on the pistol, and he wavered on the spot, close to fainting. “This isn't what it looks like!” Harleen shouted, far louder and madder than she had hoped to sound.

“Quinzel?! Is that  _ you _ ?!”

The horror and confusion in Riley's voice cut through the tableau and bought back its colour and clarity. Too lucid, too real and frightening. The suit Harleen wore was suddenly too cold, suddenly too  _ soaked a _ nd the moustache she'd been wearing had come completely unstuck.

 

♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥ ◊ ♥

 

  
  


A single high and endless tone buzzed about his head, blocked out by the occasional THUD - THUD - THUD of Cobblepot’s striking blows. His fingers and feet were tingling sharply, but that was the only pain that he could feel. The Penguin had dulled the rest with fist after fist, that after so many hits, he'd lost all sense of self, swaying in and out of consciousness. His extremities, his mind, screamed white noise on white noise. Until his thoughts were announcements on the Gotham City News, echoing down a long and winding corridor, through an old and sparking radio…

_ AND HE GOES IN WITH HIS LEFT, FOLLOWS THROUGH WITH HIS RIGHT -- PERFECT FORM LADIES AND GENTLEMEN -- WHAT A SIGHT TO BEHOLD _

_ JUST LIKE THE LEGEND SAYS  _

_ FLOATS LIKE A BUTTERFLY _

_ STINGS LIKE A -- NO _

**_NO_ ** _ \-- PECKS LIKE A -- _

_ PECKS LIKE A PENGUIN _

_ HAHAHAHAHAHA _

_ NOW THAT’S GOTTA  _ **_HURT!_ **

 

It does.  _ Canned laughter _ . No, really -- it  _ kills _ . Somewhere in the back of his mind, beyond the raging, prickling static that tickled his ears, there was a blinding pain for every  _ CRUNCH _ of cartilage. He could feel the dribble of clots at his throat, sinus’ crushed and nose completely re-broken.

_ AAAAAAAAND HE’S SWITCHIN’ IT UP WITH A BOOT TO THE FACE! NICE SHOES! THAT’S SOME QUALITY LEATHER!  _

 

He coughed, wheezed. At least the weight was off of his chest. No longer was a fat man perched on his ribcage pulling the punches… Joker groaned, one limp, dead hand dragged up to shield his battered face. With consciousness came agony -- and his moans were weak and left his lips laced in blood. More canned laughter, layers and layers of awkward giggles, that when waking, honed into one barking sadist laugh. As Oswald Cobblepot stood relishing in the delight of his downed enemy. He was haggard by excursion but he was certainly happy, Cobblepot relented only briefly to take a breather from stamping down on Joker’s face for the second -- no,  _ seventh _ time.

Despite the screeching in his skull, Joker took the single opportunity left to scrabble weakly from the feet of the Penguin.  “I guess we’ve got a different sense of humour…” he panted against the varnished wood flooring, spittle and blood drooled thickly from a swollen, busted mouth. Payback for the Cobblepot family home had been expected, and now for the Lounge that was collapsing around them as he spoke.

Patrons stood in shock at the scene before them, seeing Penguin perhaps for the first time in true light. They'd fallen through the ceiling in the throes of their ravenous rivalry and into a room of wealthy celebrities, a smoking room to the side where some had found safety from the invasion and explosions. They stared in silence. Stared at their charitable, rich host with his bloodied fists and hard, black eyes -- not quite the lavish socialite he appeared to be. At least  _ not anymore. _ Joker laughed, as best a laugh as he could muster with his throat tight and lungs burning.  _ Ack-ka-haha! “ _ G-great party, Oswald, you sure know how to throw ‘em!” He could feel Penguin had frozen in front of his accidental audience. “ _ Punches _ , that is!” The flinching and cringing faces of the pampered celebs only had Joker laughing harder. Though it hurt. It  _ really  _ hurt.

“Keep your  _ fuckin’ trap _ shut Joker --” Penguin spat, but didn’t move from his spot despite Joker scraping and crawling away.

A woman screamed, high and piercing. And every movement felt like fire, from the throbbing in his veins to the tips of his fingers, where nails embedded in the planks of hardwood. He kept on crawling. Crawling and bleeding. His chest was full of sparks and embers, pinpricks of pain that burrowed their way through soft tissue and sinew. The radio static felt set to return, fizzing on the edge of his mind’s eye. He fought a sickening type of sleep, one that beckoned him with warmth and weakness.  _ IS HE ABOUT TO GIVE IN LADIES AND GENTLEMEN?! I’M AT THE EDGE OF MY SEAT! _ A headache splintered, splitting bone. “ _ Christ _ \--” he managed a breathy curse that burned in his throat. More screams. A gunshot. Even Joker felt his eyelids flutter at the course and sudden cracking.

“Boss --  _ fuck _ ,” Floyd’s voice was at his ear, soft and certain through the hiss in his head. “Stay back --” Floyd threatened angrily into the abyss which Joker swam, “I will fuckin’ shoot you.” He was hooking an arm, forcing Joker to stand on bandy legs…

Searing pain erupted, shooting up and down his spine. He was gagging,  _ retching _ , and Floyd held him steadfast as he shook with ravaging coughs. Cobblepot inched forward, panicked by the presence of Floyd at his side, tending to what was  _ his carcass _ . Joker smiled, a grimace on his gristle features -- while Floyd pointed his gun at the Penguin without hesitation. Joker waggled a single digit. “Don’t,” was all he could manage.

“But boss --”

Cobblepot glared, ebony eyes endless tunnels of  _ loathing _ . He pounced. Snatching the gun from Floyd’s grip, Joker wavered, aimed (barely) and fired -- one, two-  _ three _ shots. The thigh, the shin, lastly the kneecap. Stretched, taut black suit pants tore and slacked. Blood and bone flicking from the open bullet wounds with a satisfied popping. Penguin haltered in his advance in an instant. The fury on his face melted to make way for pure and utter  _ misery _ . “Oops. I slipped.” Joker’s tone was dark, dark as their eyes met and were brothers each in their own agony. He shoved the pistol back into the hands of his goon, “let’s  _ go _ .”

A flight of stairs took some time to get down, every single step sent hot white pain up to his skull and back again. Had Joker not been in such a  _ state _ he’d had felt a tad more triumphant. Still, he considered it a solid win nonetheless. But as they reached the bottom, he caught the attention of his fellow men gathered there -- they had congregated outside of the main hall of entertainment, where he’d left Harley and Claus to mingle amongst the evenings celebrations. He was at first about to question their stand-off until he heard the screaming himself coming from inside. Two women in a maddened altercation  -- one of which he recognised instantly -- loud, high and irritating as fuck. Harley was screaming at the top of her lungs therein. Quite the way she’d done once or twice with him. Exhaustion, trauma, they seemed to dissipate at the sound of her unbridled anger, so that he matched with his own. And jealousy -- so much,  _ so much _ jealousy. Ignoring the pain that cracked up his leg like lightning, Joker kicked the doors wide open, panting and partially delirious, he scanned the room -- the line-up of shaken hostages -- the few left standing, Harley Quinn red faced and screeching he felt as though his brain might implode, and another woman to his left, screaming (not quite as offensively) back.

“You’re working with the Joker?! I can’t believe you would do such a thing! What is  _ wrong with you _ ?! You traitor--”

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!  _ TRAITOR?! _ HAH. THAT’S RICH COMIN’ FROM  _ YOU _ !”

“Stop pointing the goddamn gun at us!”

“I CAN POINT IT WHEREVER I WANT!”

“You’re pathetic.”

“YEAH, WELL,  _  YOU’VE _ \-- YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN A  _ TALENTLESS HACK _ \--”

“Quiet!” He was bleeding, drooling, choking, limping, verging on blacking out -- and Harley was arguing with some dumb blonde nobody broad.  _ Really?!  _ His head was too heavy for his shoulders, and he swayed unsteady on his feet. Her expression dropped at his voice and the other woman gasped, stepping back and stumbling on the broken pieces of the staging. Harley’s face confirmed how he felt. He must have looked a  _ mess. _ To put it politely. She held fast in her position though he held out his arms best he could for a hug, sliding gradually to one side.

“Oh my _ god _ \--” she mouthed, scared.

But the building shook again, this time, from the very foundations, walls collapsing and roofs caving -- sending each and every person scrambling and screaming as chunks of plaster chipped away, ceilings cracked with thick black webbing as they broke apart. The Iceberg Lounge was folding in on itself, the explosives had it crumpling like paper. He could barely keep from tumbling all the way to the floor, but Floyd had leapt to his side -- kept him from collapsing too. The world whirred, a tremendous rumbling at their feet. Clouds of dust billowed and choked. He called for Harley but could only croak through the powdered concrete that filled his mouth, stung his eyes and blocked his nose. The Lounge was coming in around them, bursting and breaking floor by floor.

“The signal!” someone, somewhere screamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids, it's me again! Just here to say i'm so sorry for such a long absence and such a long wait for an update! I've mentioned it before (I think?) but I struggle a lot with seriously unpredictable mood swings and emotional issues ( _ugh! ikr?!_ ) and it can really impact my writing, motivation and general well-being. For a few months I've just been unable to focus, as much as I want to get this finished, sometimes I've just got to let things take their toll and get back to it as and when I can. It's been really difficult to get this out, as much as I have wanted to! I've missed being able to update frequently -- honestly, your feedback and support has kept me going, and thank you to those who continue to support me through some trying times.
> 
> These last few months have come with some super highs, and some SUPER LOWS. I spent some amazing time with my long distance love, I've had some wonderful time over the holiday season (of which I haven't been able to do in YEARS) but I've also been crippled by horrible, horrible emotional instability. _Fun times!_ I'm trying to get back on my feet, somehow... Anyways, I hope you enjoy, look forward to hearing from you, much mad love, L x  
>  If you'd like to follow / contact me -- you can find me more frequently at madluv.tumblr.com


	22. STRAIGHT OFF THE RUNAWAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

It was  _ less _ of a signal and more of a van simply veering its way through the front entrance. Tires melted the red carpet, wood cracking and splintering as it forced its way through the foyer, bashing into the buffet and tipping (most tragically) the chocolate fountains. Food rolled at their feet as the getaway engine choked to a standstill. Shock silenced the room for all of a moment, frozen in an unbelievable scene, like something straight off the stage. Harleen couldn’t believe the set before her, the gala and all of it’s glamour a shambles, a _ sham _ . Collapsing in and billowing out in plumes of crumbling concrete, it swallowed the gathered crowd, it took Riley screaming and the director was shouting, disappearing into the spreading smoke. Claus was quickly upon her, with his strong arms wrapped at her waist to protect her, tearing through the clouds of thick debris and tossing her unceremoniously into the back of the whining van. “Quick -- get  _ in _ !” Floyd was sat at the driver's seat, shining with sweat -- and Claus hoisted each of the Joker’s lackeys into the back alongside her. Happy first and then the wide-mouthed Frog, finally Nick who came along laughing and clapping at the carnage. Harleen held her breath, it caught and clawed at her tightening throat.  _ Joker… _ But he appeared through the rubble as though summoned by her desperate thoughts. A wiry shape that limped through the mist. A battered, bleeding mess of a man, Claus offered a bicep for balance as the Joker clambered all broken and bruised into the back with the rest of them. He was hacking from inhaling so much of the smog, blood blocking his nose, eyes swelling shut. Harleen hadn’t a clue it would have ended so severely -- felt hurt at what she’d been exposed to, felt such a rage still for Riley, but mostly was scared for the Joker. A want (no,  _ a need _ ) to help ease his pain. She couldn’t believe the sheer unjust in their lives was shared! Who would have thought?! Harleen swallowed back an angry sob, went to reach for his twitching, bloodied fingers, but the van was slammed into gear and reversed with a roar from the tumbling Iceberg Lounge.  _ Just in time. _

The need to touch the Joker became a need instead   _ to hold on tight to whoever was closest _ , as the vehicle sped round corner to corner, they rolled and rattled in their cramped tin can container. She heard the Joker complaining coarsely, barely comprehensible, save for the expletives. Crying out amongst the chaos, elbows in rib cages, swearing and groaning from every side. Harleen, too, couldn't contain her screams as they spun, two wheels lifting on a tight left turn. From the worried looks of the Joker’s men, to his own busted, battered black n’ blue face, Harleen could only think one terrible thing. Speeding the streets of Gotham in this banged up van, they were all going to die. All her regrets, all the wrongdoings -- all that  _ revenge _ \-- would go undone.

Ha ha  _ haaaaaaa. “ _ You should see your face,” the Joker cackled, a croaking, grating sound. He pointed weakly at Harleen as they ricocheted against the interior, chuckling and gargling.

“You should see yours!” She spat back -- her fury still bubbling from the fiasco back at the Iceberg Lounge. To think Riley would go unpunished for stealing her spotlight! And the Joker, predictably, laughed some more at her snapping reaction. Her blood  _ boiled _ .

“Lighten up, Harls --” despite their desperate, dangerous fleeing, Harleen found herself hanging on to the Joker’s words, a thread of hope. “Floyd’s the best getaway driver from here to Timbuktu! Isn't that right?”

“Then why does Claus drive you everywhere?”

“He looks better in the hat.”

Harleen wanted to punch him, add to the war wounds he was currently sporting on his swollen face, eyes squinting and gums bleeding. The Joker’s grin was as unbearable as it was heart-wrenching, caught between wanting to ring his neck and hug him. She scoffed as the van decided for them both, a nudge in the road slammed him backwards as suddenly as she was slammed forward. They were close to bashing heads but Claus held her firmly in her seat. Though he hadn't caught her quite quick enough to avoid the accidental foot planted in the Joker’s crotch. He crumpled into himself, face pinched in pain.

“I didn't mean --” she rushed.

“It's the fuzz!” yelled Floyd, taking another severe turn as sirens erupted, piercingly loud as the city police surrounded them from either side and scraped along the metal.

_ Oh. No. _

The Joker rolled off the opposite bench and onto the floor, one hand clenching his groin, the other beckoning for something from his men. He was winded and struggling to find the words to bark an order. One lanky leg kicked, over and over at the back doors, until finally it burst open. Wind whipped at their hair. The noise of the traffic, the sirens, the speed was deafening, and Harleen found herself clinging to Claus desperately.

“Naughty, naughty,” the Joker finally managed above the racket, as his men pulled a large trunk from beneath the seating, loading that all too familiar bazooka as he sat, legs spread in the centre of the van, readying to aim it and fire into the open road. “Now daddy’s  _ got to _ overcompensate,” peals of his signature laughter followed.

Harleen would've felt bad perhaps, if not preoccupied with fearing for her life! Cars swerved and collided off road as the van continued to speed through the busy streets. People threw themselves mindlessly from the deadly ordeal -- oddly a rather commonplace occurrence in Gotham City. Police cars on the chase, red and blue and blaring. They appeared well practised in the arts of evading sudden death. It appeared Harleen too, from the theatre, to Black Mask's bullet, and now almost halfway hanging out of a screeching motor, was becoming just as good. Her chest was crushed by the cold evening air, smothering her mouth and nostrils. Her fingers were claws clasped so tightly onto Claus -- she couldn't move, couldn't breathe -- couldn't believe it!

"Say bye-bye!" The Joker roared above the noise, aiming unsteadily the overbearing bazooka, legs akimbo, he was giggling, eyes glinting -- a malice that hid behind bruises and laughter lines.  **KA-BOOM!** The Joker was blasted backward by the force of the weapon. Thrown into his arms of his men who sat waiting to take the impact. An engine blew -- sent flashes off searing heat into the cramped space of the van. Harleen gasped, took a lungful of the sickly scent of gasoline -- stared wide-eyed at the blasted police car, all burned and blazing. This was bad. This was really bad. "Can't leave 'em wanting more can we?" The Joker questioned the void as another round was reloaded, and another GCPD vehicle gave them chase.

Harleen had always wanted to be popular, to be recognised, to be famous. Even way back in high school, she'd wanted to appease the what-were-considered-cool-kids. Wore whatever they wore, spoke however they spoke, all in hopes she'd be voted most fit to wear the plastic crown on prom night, where would-be boyfriend of the time could gloat about his catch. Where she'd lose her virginity in the back of car that smelt like stale McDonald's fries. That she'd keep her crown on the whole time. Only, things didn't quite manifest as she'd hoped (did they ever?) What with her troubled father thrown in and out of jail and a mother always struggling to make ends meet, she didn't quite fit the prom queen image they were looking for. So, a girl with a pool in her backyard and a white picket fence got the title, while Harleen Quinzel received a somewhat unique reward. Most likely to have a run in with the law: Harleen Quinzel. Given plastic cuffs in place of a pretend tiara. Had her entire life been set up as a joke? Only fitting then she'd end up alongside the Joker. Of its own accord, short, sharp and unable to extinguish, Harleen let out the smallest, most nervous laugh. Somewhere between a scoff and a desperate, aching sob.  


"Smile boys, this one's the money shot!"

 

**KA-BOOM!**

 

Harleen braced for the impact. Consumed by a wave of searing hot air, blinded momentarily by a flash of white. The car tailing them rocketed upward, it's innards bursting into mushroom clouds of stormy red flames. The police had to break to avoid catching fire, tires bursting, guns popping from the cops having been brought to a standstill. Floyd continued to push the struggling van onward, leaving smoke and rubble in their wake. 

They'd lost their tails, turning down into the narrow east-side roads of Gotham. Bumped painfully over pothole after pothole, and everyone sat in silence, smelling and stained by smoke. It was harder to make chase, on tight, cracked streets. Floyd crept them back to the industrial estate, where their warehouse hideout waited. Harleen had never been more relieved to see it. Grey skies, the thick smog of the city hung overhead, nothing so ugly and concrete had ever looked so good before. She felt sick. Wrecked nerves, anger, adrenaline -- it all surged through her veins, her stomach, her mind. She was shaking, and Claus squeezed her lightly. The calm  _ after  _ the storm, and she was in shock.

The van clambered onto the curb and came to a standstill at last. A joint sigh of relief, from the car -- from the Joker’s own men, Harleen watched, silent, trembling, as they hopped out somewhat stiffer than they had hopped in. She was bandy on her legs, waited for Claus to help her out of the back, looked over her shoulder at the Joker, who was breathing hard, laid back against the tin, arms about the bazooka as though it were a plush or a pillow.

“Miss Quinzel,” Happy, gruff as always, prompted her onward, placing his huge leather jacket over her shoulders. “Let's get you inside.” 

  
  


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His bones felt as though they had splintered. Each long, lank limb felt as though it had been twisted, tied and tweaked beyond what it was capable of. Collapsed like a crumpled ragdoll in the back of the van, Joker clung to the bazooka barrel, holding its heat against his chest for as long as it would last. His face was numb with swelling but he dared not touch the doughy mess he knew it was. The Penguin could certainly throw a punch, or  _ twenty _ . Back in the day, when they'd played nice together over ownership of Gotham's districts, he'd had his first run in with Cobblepot after ruining an important business proposal. So, Oswald had broken his face with the handle of his umbrella and Joker had sported the slither of a scar at the bridge of his nose ever since. That was  _ nothing _ in comparison to the beat down he wore for his mess of a mug today!

Joker may have  _ looked _ like he'd lost this war, but he giggled quietly at his own antics -- he had, after all, most certainly won. Both the Cobblepot family home and the jewel that was the Iceberg Lounge gentleman’s club were now nothing more than mere rubble and mortar. Perhaps the Penguin would think twice before putting a price on the Prince’s head in the future… And Joker still had cash to splash from Oswald’s stolen safe, what had started it all. His body ached and stung like  _ shit _ but Joker felt  _ good.  _ It was time to celebrate! He'd grab the girl and take her for a night on the town, give her the party she'd hoped of the gala. They'd drink and dance all night!

With this thought in mind,  _ elated _ , he discarded the bazooka and rolled from the back of the van. If his body wasn't ablaze with pain, he'd have most certainly skipped up to the warehouse. Instead, Joker limped, stumbled -- but smiled still. Slamming open the door, arms splayed, he wasn't welcomed so much with the cheers and whoops of success he'd been expecting. Was faced with a vacant space full of solemn expressions. His men were all busying themselves with dusting off the ash from their suits, towelling down to remove the soot. Not a single person reacted to his entrance. Not even Harley, who sat with her back to the door, having been planted on the stained sofa, jacket on her shoulders, blinking blankly at the television.

How  _ rude _ . Joker was offended by their standoffish attitudes, scoffing loudly. “The thanks I get --” Couldn't they see what he'd  _ been through _ ? He onced-over his ignorant gang again, expecting perhaps that the situation would change. It didn't. Only, a sudden thought came into his mind, taking in each and every one of their miserable faces. “Where's Yanos?” No one said a word, which proved the worst. Well,  _ shit _ . It would’ve been Yanos. The one who'd been burdened with Oswald’s invite, the only one of his men who didn't care how cheap the drinks, or how cheaper the women. A patron of the Iceberg Lounge whose loyalties instead had laid with Joker. The one they'd have recognised, and known, was a rat in their walls. “Pack up, we’re leaving.”

“What?” It was Harley that spoke out, one simple low word from her spot at the couch. She didn't turn to look, carried on staring at the television screen.

“We’re  _ leaving _ ,” Joker stressed on the words, feeling tension rising. If Harley wanted to throw one of her tantrums, the time wasn't  _ now _ . He wondered how many fingers Yanos’ would lose, before spouting the location to their very hideout. Joker doubted he'd make it past  _ one.  _ “Harley, get your shit together, we’ve got to go.”

His men were already moving. Floyd had sped back off to pull in the van, Happy had hurried to off to fetch his truck. Frog and Nick were already uprooting furniture, Joker pulled Harley’s fairy lights from the steel posts. Other nameless goons helping to shift what was left of Joker’s explosives and other various tinkers. They knew what  _ he _ knew, that it was only time before Cobblepot was given direction, to come down on them with all of his vengeance. Harley, however, hadn't a  _ clue _ .

“I'm not going.”

“Harley-kins,  _ angel _ ,” perhaps the gentle approach would shift her ass into gear. “Sweetie pie--”

“No.”

“Hahaha, good one,” he waggled his finger at the back of her head. It wasn't funny at all. “Now’s not the time to play hard to get.”

“I'm  _ not _ leavin’... I'm  _ ruined _ !”

“You’ll either walk out of here or I’LL BE  _ DRAGGING _ YOU OUT. MAKE UP YOUR MIND  _ DOLL _ !”

Joker's voice echoed and bounced back off the walls. A barking, vicious anger that resounded, once, then twice, before fading into silence. His lackey’s stilled, eyes shifting back and forth. And finally, Harley turned to look at him, tears welling in her round, wet eyes. She said nothing, raised the remote, and up, up, up went the sound on the set.

_ “Breaking: There has just been a devastating attack from the Joker at the Iceberg Lounge here tonight, the services are working tirelessly into the night to get everybody out of the wreckage. It has come as such a shock, the charity gala held here has always been a place for Gotham to show its generosity and austerity, people have been left crushed and appalled. As you can see from behind me, the Lounge has been brought to the ground.” _

“And?!” Joker snapped. Then the head-shot he'd seen of Harley in print, the picture that had  _ started it all _ , appeared in the corner of the screen, next to the anchor.

“ _ Police are hoping to reach out to the actress Harleen Quinzel who now after tonight is believed to still be alive. Please contact Gotham City Police if you have any information on her current whereabouts. _ ”

She was shaking, tears rolling, bottom lip wavering. _Jesus Christ_ , Joker didn't have time on his side to console her, dragging a hand up and through his hair, he groaned loudly. Tugged at the roots in frustration. _Why_ _was she was such hard work!?_ “Harley, dearest, sweet pumpkin pie -- _I’ll_ _fix this_ , but first I need you to pack your bags and come with me.” He spoke with a smile and tight gritted teeth, approaching her, steadily, step by step.

“Do what you want,  _ I don't care _ .”

“As you wish.” Joker was upon her from behind, thrusting her face downward and into the cushions. “Boys!” Frog and Nick scurried quickly to his aid, hoisting the couch as Joker tied her, a squirming, squealing, thrashing flailing of limbs. Binding her with the fairy lights she'd been tied up in  _ months _ before. Only this time, it was to save her -- as much as he still wanted to murder her (especially in  _ this _ moment) as she screamed obscenities, spitting and snarling. It was quite the ordeal, before the final knot was fixed. Wrapped horizontally onto the sofa. If Harley didn't want to move, now she didn't  _ have to.  _ “Throw her in the truck and get the rest put away. Make it quick, we don't have much time.” 


	23. UP IN LIGHTS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes up, must come down.

Harleen sobbed silently as the van rumbled to their next hideout, rolling along well within the speed limit, hoping to pass on through to their next stop undetected by both the police and the Bat. Tied tightly against the stuffy, scuffed second-hand sofa, Harleen's limbs were bound by fairy lights, their bulbs mostly broken and scratching at the nylon of her cheap, shabby suit. It was as though she'd come full circle, to find herself once again tied down by the Joker and fearing for her life. She'd been thrown into the back of the van, and left alone to listen to the Joker’s men move the entirety of the warehouse into whatever available vehicles were left. His thugs talking in hurried and hushed tones -- how they were now threatened by the Penguin’s direct retaliation. Even though the warehouse hideout had played its part as Harleen's prison, the thought of being forcibly removed from the place she'd tried her hardest to decorate, tried to make feel as homely as she could, was all too much to take. From the Lounge, the chase, to her face -- her old self, almost unrecognisable -- flashing up on the television screen with news anchors asking for her whereabouts. It was all just too much. Harleen had somehow unintentionally swapped her fame for infamy, and it was far too late to back out.

 

"Cobblepot's got some of the best men in Gotham," a thug spoke from somewhere beyond the metal tin can, hauling whatever was left from the warehouse.

 

"Yeah, but we've got J -- if anyone can come outta this mess on top, it's him."

 

Tears stung as they dried on flustered cheeks. Anger bubbled in the pit of her stomach, and nerves had her limbs trembling. Harleen was back where she'd started out, only bruised, scarred and complicit in the Joker’s crimes. Things had been fun, cracking the safe, spending money, living semi-lavishly, spending big bucks from bank accounts they didn’t own, attending events reserved only for the Gotham elite. Excitement had, at times, outweighed the consequences. Harleen had allowed herself to be pulled into the Joker's world, a whirlwind of choreographed attacks on enemies to catastrophe and chaos . She'd rescued him from the Batman and in turn he had rescued her -- from the brink of death and from the monotony of normal life... From the impending, unavoidable anonymity. Fame might have faded for her. One misstep, one misspoken word and another, the likes of Peyton Riley, would have always been sat in the wings and waiting to overthrow her. But like this, on the run, the intrigue, the crazy, the scandal, the infamy would never die. Even if she did, Harleen was solidified in Gotham history. Tears left their sore red tracks but a smile crept the corners of her mouth. Through all of the Joker's rough handling, barking words and madness, he had realised and re-imagined her dream far better than she could have done. Even if she were to die tonight, by the Penguin's men, or by the Joker's own hand, she had that, at least, to thank him for.

 

Fear gripped her as the van came to a stop, doors of other vehicles were opening and slamming. The whole entourage were unloading and unpacking what they'd been able to salvage from their previous hide-out at the docks, moving them on to who knows where. Though no one hurried to unload her from the back of the van. Harleen struggled against her busted bonds and felt a few of the bulbs break as she shifted against the seats. Tried to force her way into an upright position and craned her head to press an ear against the cold metal. Hoping to better hear what was being discussed outside. Harleen had been kept in the dark for only so long -- as soon as the metal touched her face the back doors of the van flew open, and orange street lights flooded in. A skinny, silhouette held the doors wide open and he drawled, "how was the trip, Harls?"

 

They had ungracefully removed her from the back of the van, still caught up and attached to the couch. The Joker's men gathered in an unfamiliar car-park, in an unfamiliar part of town, with Harleen horizontally placed in the middle of their meeting. Their cars were surrounded by towering, derelict abandoned high-rises. Homes for the poorest in the city -- looked as though they had been evacuated a long time ago, possibly the part of East Gotham most ruined by an attack of the Scarecrow's a few years prior. They had never been restored or rebuilt, so she'd read on the news, and stood, like sad, lonely monoliths, a place for squatters, homeless, drug-deals and unsurprisingly,  the Joker. Eerily illuminated by the street lamps, the bat-signal between the buildings was blotted by smoggy grey clouds. "Where are we?" The first and only thing she could think to say.

 

The Joker's gaze met hers the moment she'd opened her mouth to speak. Tonguing his teeth as he contemplated his response, he smiled once, sharp and smug before opening his arms. "Why, we're home, Harley my sweet." His announcement echoed -- of which he seemed impressed.

 

She eyed the dump, nodding only once. The place was as pitiful and unsuspecting as their previous warehouse abode. As much as the Joker adored his theatrics, he lived and hid in plain sight. Smart, really. To live somewhere so undesirable, so close to Gotham's city centre -- that even the most colourful clown could go undetected and undisturbed. She thought better than to complain as Frog and Claus hoisted her couch onto their shoulders, and carried her like a coffin in the direction of home.

 

Though the closer they came to the high-rises, the more detail was made known to her. The outskirts were lined with metal, barbed wire wrapped carelessly and woven through the mesh that surrounded the perimeter like prison walls. Spray paint littered the DANGER and KEEP OUT signs, with smiley faces and quirky quotes. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT was riddled with nails, embedded deep into the sheet metal, though the word SHOT was painted over and replaced with ENTERTAINED. Graffiti tags coloured the crumbling concrete and people lingered in the lobby areas of the abandoned homes. And The Joker, unperturbed, strolled on through, wading through the sea of brightly dressed thugs, some dipping their heads as he passed. Some muttering "boss" and "J" in recognition. Harleen had thought his base of operations at Grin and Bare It had been impressive, but this was an entirely different league. Did the Joker have his own private army guarding his house? For someone who was wanted dead as often as he was, it was wise.

 

Harleen knew she should have felt scared of his weird, wacky following of disturbed fashion victims... but instead, Harleen felt nothing but security, safe. Being protected by the scary people was far better than running from them and as they entered the high-rise, she held a breath of anticipation but there was no fear of it. Not anymore.

 

The interior was just as unpleasant as the outside. Graffiti, paint peeling, damp, mould and dark, the lower floor housed nothing but a desk with a woman sat behind it. She was pale in the lamp-light, big dark eyes framed by pastel pink hair. Two black triangles painted underneath her eyes, a large ruff-like collar about her neck. The frilly looking clown chewed on a pen lid without looking up from her papers. "Clown Town Incorporated, how can I help... J?!" The briefest glance in their direction had her standing on ceremony. She looked at each of them, quizzically, judging -- clearly holding her questions back as her attention fell on Harleen strapped to a sofa and carried like corpse.

 

" _L_ ," the Joker dragged on the letter, "my loyal gummi bear..." he picked a dirty Furby off the desk and a plastic eye rolled from it's skull and onto the floor, tap, tap, tapping until it reached the door. He put it back as though hoping no one had noticed, back amongst other assorted toys, stationary, bullets and a vase of plastic flowers. Harleen watched, face etched with confusion, and L appeared to scowl at his actions. "Everything ready?" he asked.

 

"All done," L replied, "some guys are out moving your shit as we speak. I've had beds prepped for your _guests_ ... though they gotta take the stairs." She shrugged as they each, in turn, groaned (save for Claus, who made no complaint.) "Elevator's for the boss _only_ , punks." L pointed her chewed up pen in their direction like a scolding parent, though she was small and bright like a pixie, they silenced themselves instantly at her snapping. “She’s gonna have to be restrained another way -- that ain’t gonna fit in the lift.” The girl called L waved her hand in Harleen’s direction, referenced to the sofa with a flick of the wrist. “We’ll _burn that_ , just get her off of it. _Jesus_.”

 

The Joker turned to Harleen clicking his fingers. She was dropped roughly to the floor by his disgruntled, tired men. That butterfly knife, the same he’d flashed in her face the night she’d been captured, was drawn up her body with one fluid snapping of her binds. Releasing her from the confines of the stale sofa _finally_ . Before Harleen had even the chance to sit up gradually and nurse her aching muscles, the Joker had ahold of her wrist and pulled her into standing. Pins and needles had her cringing, erupting like white noise within her bones. “ _Ouch_!” she hopped onto the first foot that felt most alive, leaving the other to buzz.

 

“You two with _me_ \-- the rest of you, fuck off upstairs. 3rd floor. You’ve got beds, showers and clothes.” She pointed to the staircase, once used by Gotham citizens, now used by the Joker and his _clown_ incorporation. The entire complex was their own. Harleen would have been offended by this treatment, if it wasn’t so completely _insane_ . And she followed the Joker closely, who then followed the clown called L. L grabbed from the drawers a set of keys, ushered them both towards the elevator, that now away from the desk, Harleen quickly came to notice that L was _packing._ Grenades were attached to her pink belt as she hoisted an AK onto her shoulder. Fumbling with the keys to open the elevator doors, swearing obscenities under her breath. The doors squeaked open, that all three of them cringed at the lengthy, high and creaking sound. “Gotta get that fixed,” L stated.

 

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He’d called the penthouse with little notice. Not that Joker required notice to access his own _home_ but under the current circumstances, had arranged for more arms, more _men_ , to keep their holding protected from invasion or attack. L had not disappointed and had delivered as she’d said she would. L, a woman he’d swiped from the Feds some years ago had more than proven her worth in Joker’s working operations. They had established Clown Town Incorporated between them -- a private radio station, private telephone lines... His people worked through crypted lines when things got _complicated_ in Gotham City, and though this often confused (or bored) the clown at the top, L kept the cogs turning when he was MIA, or more often than not, AWOL. His men answered to her when he couldn’t be bothered (quite frankly) and when he needed rose petals and salts in his bath or ammo in excessive amounts, she delivered, no matter how ridiculous or odd or sporadic the request. The elevator key that took them up to his penthouse was held by L only, and she ushered them like a hotelier up to the top floor of the old and rickety apartment complex.

“Any calls?”

Harley was silent, standing awkwardly in his grip in the tight space of the lift. Joker could feel her arms were tense, fists were tight -- taking in each and every detail of her surroundings with both equal awe and distaste. This was no Iceberg Lounge, that was certain, although, considering how they’d left it, this was basically the Ritz.

“Several. _Cobblepot_.”

Joker snapped his watchful eye of Harley back to L, who spoke the name nonchalantly.

“Mostly screaming though. A whole lotta “fuck you’s” and “the clown’s dead,” quite a few death threats if I’m honest. I did write ‘em down but they’re all pretty much the same... About tearing off your head and having it on his wall. I said, what wall? Ain’t your house and club rubble and mortar? He told me he’d find a place that fit. I asked him, want me to pass the message on? I needed to grab a pen -- and then he put the phone down.” She shrugged. “Other than that, pretty quiet our end, J. Y’know, the usual.”

The _usual_ . Joker scoffed. He was battered beyond recognition ( _almost_ ) and the Penguin had certainly released _some_ of his anger at the Iceberg Lounge -- this wasn’t the first time Oswald had come for his head. Joker was absolutely certain it wouldn’t be the last. Harley, however, didn’t take the news as calmly as her clown counterparts, her fingers twitching at her sides, staring wide-eyed and unblinking. Maybe it made sense to her now, the urgency of their move from the warehouse to his penthouse. He wondered idly if she’d come to appreciate the change of scenery, if she forgave nothing else.

The doors reopened and L kept her hand over the sensors to keep them wide, watching as both Joker and Harley left the lift and out onto the top floor. “Need anything, call,” she prompted, before dropping back off into the elevator and disappearing behind the metal, leaving Joker and Harley unattended.

The walls of the top floor of the building had been flattened. What would have been six or seven apartments had been torn down to make one huge open plan space. One kitchen had been kept, and several bathrooms, though the rest of the space was open, every window without a curtain or netting so that Gotham City could be viewed from all angles. The windows from skyscrapers, pinpricks in the inky night. A makeshift penthouse -- unkempt and untidy, but grand in it’s scheme and size, he saw Harley staring at the batsignal, the brightest night-light in the sky.

“ _Woah_ .” She stepped forward, tripping on an old pizza box but unperturbed, taken aback by the scenery presented to her. “You live here?” Finally this question could be answered. No, he didn’t live in a club, but a place he’d already reinvented. Not quite Wayne Towers, but _better_. Bolder.

“What d’ya think?” He _beamed_ . She was blatantly impressed. Though they could have perhaps tidied up his hoard of circuits that littered the coffee table -- the reams of notes and nonsensical scribbles, blueprints and batteries, they’d tidied enough to show some sort of _homeliness_ . His bed had been stripped and redressed, zebra print blankets, a crooked crucifix above the headboard. Pink walls, with green, sometimes white. The kitchen was chrome (and had been cleaned, most importantly -- he hoped to avoid another logger-headed argument with her. His head still _throbbed_.)

“I gotta give it to ya’. Pretty slick, Mister J,” Harley concluded, not quite as brash as normal, but said with a smile all the same. “Wouldn’t rate the transfer here...” Her smile was warm and she turned to him, her eyes were sad, _sympathetic_ . “ _You’re_ lookin’ a li’l worse for wear though.” And despite himself, he jolted as her hand came up to caress his jawline, a soft thumb brushing tenderly against his swollen face, along the bruising.

“ _This_? That's nothing! You should see the other guy!” he exclaimed, though his chuckle sounded emptier than he would have liked.

“C’mon,” she pulled him towards the bed, where he froze at the end. Conflicted, confused, suddenly _alarmed_ at her motion to sit. His throat was tight, mouth dry, his limbs were solid and unmoving. “Sit,” she said, an eyebrow arched and as she shuffled off towards the kitchen, the feeling returned to his extremities. Panic subsided… _What?_

Joker watched cautiously as Harley rummaged through his kitchen, pulled out a bowl and filled it with warm water. She searched again, under the sink, to grab for a sponge and an old bottle of antiseptic, hurried back to the bedside with her incredibly basic medi-kit. He eyed her carefully, he'd nursed his own wounds countless times… Catching her wrist as she reached to wipe away at the dried blood. His, mostly. If not all. Her eyes hovered at his, perched on the end of his bed and searching his expression. She'd taken a bullet and that was enough.

“I'll be gentle,” she assured and Joker's stomach twisted uncomfortably. _Stop_.

Joker relinquished his hold and the sponge grazed the sore spots across his forehead. His nose felt splintered, his skin raw as the heat met his flesh. Antiseptic _stung_ but he stared at her through the discomfort, her face scrunched in concentration. His heart felt as though it had stilled in his chest at her touch. As careful as she was, working away the blood and the grime.  _Stop._

Harley happened to catch a particular _nick_ on his cheek bone and Joker hissed through his teeth, not at her -- but she recoiled all the same. “Don't move,” she said firmly, and their eyes met. They were _blazing_.

A siren bleated somewhere off in the distance and Joker swallowed as they stared each other down. She was thinking, it was obvious, but her expression remained _unreadable_ , burning worse than his war wounds she'd aggravated. He didn't move, as she'd asked -- though she inched closer. Until the warmth of her breath replaced the warmth of the water. Her hand cupped his cheek, and he winced at the gentlest of touches. _Don't_. Harley pressed her mouth to his lips and kissed him.

He went numb the moment their mouths met, his eyes flew wide though hers were closed and trusting. Joker felt ignited though it was the briefest and simplest of kisses. As Harley withdrew, eyes lidded and glazed, cheeks flushing -- she sat in her suit he'd forced her into, her fingers never left his face. Brushed gingerly at his cheekbone and remained, their contact unbroken.

Taken aback by the show of sincerity, of the true and most honest emotion, over the pain and the smarting, Joker reciprocated the action, moved in though she'd asked him not to, and returned her kiss with a hunger.

Both of her hands gripped his head and Harley guided his clumsy kisses, her fingers roved his hair, pain spiked at each movement and every pressure, she urged him on -- goaded his kiss with her own unique fervour. His heart thrummed madly against his ribcage -- he couldn't feel her lips on his but wanted it still. Harley's eyes were closed and he watched her, stared, shocked by their closeness, the hotness of her tongue at his busted lips. He silently begged for her careful, soft and fleeting, flitting touches. He made a sound, a small and croaking noise that clicked in the back of his throat, as she kissed his mouth, his broken nose, his swollen blue eyelids. _Don't stop_.


	24. INITIATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two sides of the same card.

Well, he was screwed. No -- no, Christ, not in  _ that _ way. Joker was, after all, nothing but a gentleman! Having withdrawn himself from Harley’s roving hands, he hadn't dared returned to the bedside after their quick and careful kisses on the edge of his mattress.  He had left her, with her eyebrow raised, lips smeared by his lipstick, pouting, wavering, confusion etched upon his harlequin’s pale complexion. He  _ couldn't.  _ It had been so long since he'd felt a gentle, loving embrace -- and instead of allowing it to envelope him in warmth and comfort, Joker had caught himself, recoiling from her caressing hands as though she  _ burned _ . And that, she did.

 

This wasn't him. This hadn't been him for a long,  _ almost endless _ time -- a time he couldn't quite recall. Couldn't quite recollect. The pit in his stomach was bottomless and he had been sure, until now, his heart had fallen in. Harley had since fallen too, into an exhausted silence and Joker, instead of joining her in his own bed, had taken to staring sullenly out at the Gotham skyline, high-rises bled into the evening mauve, the streets turned to blues and pinks and glowing red. This was  _ it _ . He was done for. A ghostly reflection blinked, it's eyes sunken black, blue and swollen, looked back at him with an uncertainty and fear. Something Joker tried to swallow back, throat tight and sore with each ragged breath. He  _ was _ screwed. Everything he'd done had been for her, to capture her, the want to kill her, to strangle the life from her soft (and would be flailing) limbs. He paid dearly for his need to keep her, could see the collapse of his empire before he had finished his build. And now he  _ wanted her _ . He wanted to go back to that place that he couldn't quite remember, with smells from a hot and modest kitchen in the height of a city summer’s evening, where a woman came to place a kiss upon his cheek, and spoke quietly into his ear about a life he'd left behind. A pretty face and light blonde hair. Those flighty, gentle touches… He couldn't let it go, he couldn't let  _ her  _ go. Harley sniffled into one sad and flattened pillow, subdued and placid despite the danger creeping in. And still, he did not go to her. 

 

“What now?” Her voice broke through the awkward quiet, and Joker turned to see Harley propped on her knees, hair a mess, freckled cheeks still flushed from before.  _ What now indeed.  _ He had some idea, but shook it from his thoughts. He wouldn't know what to do, even if he  _ wanted  _ to. His own hand ran through his own hair.

 

“My life’s over --” Harley’s smeared lips were still trembling as she spoke. The shift of his headquarters, the inevitable ruin of her career, his sudden rejection, all appeared to be proving too much. “I’ve got nothin’ left. I got no job, no dream, no friends, no nothin’” She hesitated, “‘cept you.” 

 

Joker swallowed even harder, teeth clenched and aching with the tightness of his jaw. Somehow now, what he'd wanted, that which now sat at the end of his bed, face raw and glowing with tears like the night they'd first met, appeared to be wanting him too. Unpredictable, inevitable and far too terrifying to comprehend. It had started with his fantasy of revenge, his victim had been a simple, self-absorbed actress, who he would have stolen and toyed with, to toss aside once the entertainment ran dry. And yet Harley was not some dumb broad about to be the butt of his jokes. The first time, in the longest time, Joker felt something,  _ like he remembered.  _ It was far too close to a memory that wouldn't quite materialise. He could feel the strange familiarity. He  _ felt it  _ every time he looked upon her face. He  _ was _ screwed.

 

“So it’s got me a-thinkin’” Her smile was broken but still, it was precious. Tapping her head with her palm. “We could do  _ this _ maybe long term?” She shrugged as though the suggestion was simple, nonchalant -- but both of them knew, Joker  _ knew,  _ the tension was suffocating… “You wouldn’t leave a gal  _ unemployed _ , would ya?” 

 

And Joker could do nothing but watch as Harley slid from the sheets and stepped cautiously towards him. His mind screamed for him to dodge her touch -- to avoid even the lightest stroke of her fingertips. Yet he  found he couldn't move, magnetised to the spot as she approached, step by step by step. _Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this._ He let out a nervous laugh. “Well, it's long hours Harls… and no healthcare!” Managing to catch her wrist before she reached his chest. “Not the best wages either, or so I’ve heard!” He feigned a whisper and a glance towards the door. “And there's _no union.”_

 

“Look--”

 

“No dental either! Unless you screw up! But I'll have you know I'm not certified ha- _ ha _ !” 

 

“Shut  _ up _ .” Harley pressed a single digit against his smarting mouth. And he did. For once. Staring down, wide-eyed, surprised at Harley's sudden forcefulness. And he obeyed, sighed,  _ relented _ .

 

“I could help ya’,” again, she reached for his cheek, smiling warmly, though it wavered. “N’ you could sure use it,  _ no offense _ , Mister J.” A small chuckle escaped her and his heart stammered at the sound. “Ain't that what you asked me anyways? Ain't that  _ what you want _ ?”

 

That was before the guns blazing, bullet firing, house burning interference of his rivals. Joker cleared his throat.  _ Shut up _ , she’d told him, so he continued to eye her in silence.

 

“Or don't ya’ want  _ me _ anymore?”

 

The question squeezed at his lungs and pushed the breath from his chest. He'd pulled away from her kisses, soft, warm and hungry. “Oh, on the contrary, Harley dear.” His fingers wound their way around her ear and into her haywire hair. There was that closeness again. Intertwined and touching. Her body inching ever nearer to his own at every given opportunity. _Don't. Don't._ ** _Don't_** _._ “But Harley sweetness, now’s not the best time to be--” He couldn't resist, she couldn't resist, the vacant space between them was getting smaller and smaller, until her hot breath was against his neck. 

 

And Harley kissed him briefly, angrily, before pulling herself away.  “Will ya’ at least  _ do somethin _ ’ for me?” 

 

Joker’s whole body tensed at the cracking in her voice.  “Name it.”

 

Harley’s eyes were ablaze with determination, taking ahold of him tightly. “Help me get even.” She took his jaw in her palm and kept him there. He felt the sharpness of her nails pressing tiny crescents into his skin. “And then you can do whatever you want with me,  _ puddin _ ’.” There was that familiar twang of anger in her tone.

 

Joker’s body tightened at the roughness of her touch, and despite himself, he grinned. Widely. Wickedly.The injustice and frustration flaring in Harley was just as alluring as the woman who had gently and carefully tended to his wounds, taken a bullet for him, kissed him hurriedly. There was a sense of relief that followed, flooding through Joker’s veins at Harley's request. He had  _ some idea  _ from the look in her eye what the  _ somethin’  _ would be. Carnage, mayhem, revenge? These were the desires he could most certainly satiate!

 

“Well, Harls,  _ that's _ what I call an offer I can't refuse!”

 

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They proceeded to leave in the dead of night. Just the two of them this time.  _ For the first time _ . Alone, together -- headed for something crazy. The Joker’s kind of crazy. After Harleen had made her demands, which he had (to her surprise) been more than eager to meet, they left his bedroom with a half-proposed plan and a spring in their step. A glint in the Joker’s eye as he pulled her from the apartment. He had proceeded to speak quietly to his confidant at the entrance, and L had handed him a set of keys, ushered them both subtly through to the garages and left them to their private business. From there Harleen and the Joker had clambered hurriedly into an unsuspecting car, their faces smeared with red, all the while smiling and stealing glances. Though they barely spoke a word to each other, the fleeting moments their eyes met and their smiles matched said all. He had let her take the wheel, to “lead the way, kid!” Laughing through the open window and out into the wind.

 

Harleen felt _alive_. Palms fixed on the steering wheel, the night air was cool, fresh, fragrant. She was alight with eagerness and excitement as they cruised through the outskirts, taking in the colours of the traffic. It bubbled in her stomach, twinged between her thighs. Whatever energy had sparked from their brief kissing and closeness, it had ignited a spontaneous late night plot of madness. If he didn't want her forever, hell, he could have her tonight. Beads of sweat tickled her skin as they mowed down the motorway. That same feeling she’d get before she’d take her clothes of for the first time with somebody new. That pang of fear, anticipation, and undeniable _wanting_.

 

The Joker had thrown a battered bag of tools into the backseat, and whatever was waiting for Peyton Riley, for  _ her _ , in the future rushing forward, following the cat eyes reflecting their headlights, _ there was no going back now.  _ With all that had happened, Harleen  _ couldn't  _ go back -- didn't want to, didn’t  _ care _ to. This was a one way street, hurtling at 90 miles per hour. Wanting only to continue into the night next to the clown prince of crime. That was sure to make the headlines! What better way to reclaim the spotlight than on the front page and the prime time news! Harleen was  _ scared,  _ sure, but what was better for performance than a little stage fright? Her heart hammered madly in her chest, looking once to the passenger seat where a dark-eyed Joker sat smiling, staring through the windshield, a hand around a pistol placed upon his lap.

 

Harleen knew where Riley lived. Though she’d never been cordially invited. Riley had repeated it enough times after rehearsals, like a real-life socialite, hand-holding all the higher-ups, linking arms with the directors, producers, announcing social events, hosting after-parties with people of _importance_. Harleen had only attended the one -- in hopes of inclusion. To get a glimpse at the _other side_. And yet, an extensive guestlist and a huge security guard saw to extinguishing that illusion. She’d remember that big marble entrance as though it were etched on her eyelids. The only part of Riley’s home she’d seen. The pistol in the Joker’s lap didn’t seem quite so _unnerving_. _Deserved_ though? Definitely.

 

Peyton Riley’s home was (obviously and infuriatingly) situated in the glamorous, central Gotham city. Streets were filled with (albeit now closed) expensive malls, designer stores, sleek high rise offices, penthouses and lush new apartments. The part of town Harleen visited, if only to window shop and dream during the daytime hours, play-pretending her fabulous fantasy life she’d never quite made a reality. And it looked even more spectacular at night. Bright white security lights beaming from every alabaster statue, home and office. Immaculate lawns and well-kept cobbled roads. This was another world from the one they'd just left behind, and though jaw-dropping and jealousy inducing, lacked the quirky character and charm she'd somehow gotten used to over the months spent sitting pretty as the Joker’s captive. Harleen scoffed, if only to herself.  _ Get a grip, will ya? _

 

Fists squeezed tight against the wheel and she glanced quickly to the right. This had been the longest time she’d witnessed the Joker sit in silence.  _ Had their kiss been a mistake?  _ The residue of their lipstick was still smeared across his face.  “We’re almost there!” Harleen announced, far louder than she’d intended and the Joker snapped from the window, from chewing absently at the inside of his cheek.

 

“Oh,  _ good _ .”

 

In the half-light of the fleeting streetlamps, his stark face was swallowed on and off by darkness. His smile remained illuminated, seem to stretch on and on  _ and on _ . Harleen felt a chill,  _ a thrill _ , ripple on her skin.  There was still that fear of him, rising in her belly. Butterflies, or  _ butterfly knives _ … It erased the nerves she’d felt heading for Peyton Riley. It dulled the anxiousness of unknowing. It overcame her feeling of guilt, dread, and almost everything else… It wasn't her fear anymore of his hands around her throat, it was simply the fear that they never  _ would _ . 

 

Harleen eased the car into the luxury apartment complex, sucking in what felt like an eternal breath the moment she spotted that old familiar doorway. Black marble, white stone. Her hands trembled as she bumped the curb, parking best she could despite the circumstances. “Okay. Okay. Let’s  _ do this _ .” She muttered a quick mantra in hopes to calm her trembling. 

 

Harleen rocked on her feet as they stood by the main entrance, unable to hold still. Rubbing her bare arms to try and shake the late night air. It was that or the deathly cold she felt creeping the closer they came to Riley’s whereabouts. She succumbed to hugging the Joker’s dirty duffle bag of tools. The smell of oil, the taste of metal. She hung back, clinging to his belongings as the Joker knelt on one knee and carefully picked the locks to the upmarket apartments. Cool as ever, calm, calculated, he hummed quietly, jovially, as he went to work. This was nothing to him, spelt  _ everything  _ to her.

 

“Ta-daa!” he sing-songed, accompanied by gloved jazz hands as the door clicked, clanked and was open.

 

_ What are you doing?  _ The thought was pushed from her mind as the Joker reached for her wrist and dragged her roughly inside off the street. They were greeted by a marble reception desk, thankfully vacant -- and not a soul in sight. The jazzy, lined black, grey and white carpet left Harleen feeling dazed. They had already gone over the basics back in the Joker’s bedroom, now they were over the brink. It had felt like rehearsal. Now it felt like a movie. Tangible. Lucid. Disturbingly real-life. 

 

“What room number did you say again?” the Joker was scrutinising the signage on the white-wash wall and snapped her into consciousness.

 

Guilt clogged Harleen's throat, wiped her mind blank.

 

“I remember!” he snapped his fingers, grinning devilishly all the while.

 

Harleen hung back, comprehending, worryingly, what she'd committed to. Between clumsy kisses the talk of revenge had seemed romantic. Now it simply felt raw and real. She watched the Joker cautiously, all of his relaxed, grand gestures, heading straight for the stairs without a glimpse of second-thought or conscience. She'd been in many a questionable circumstance in her life, but perhaps this time, she'd topped them all. 

 

As they reached the third flight of stairs, Harleen still clutching the duffle-bag for dear life, that same feeling -- like the opening night of her performance -- came flooding over her. Like she was standing on the precipice of something _big_. Had this been what she'd been born for, all along? A long line of fuck-ups led to this very moment, and there was no backing out now. The clown prince to her left wouldn't have it, of that she was certain. His dark eyes _gleaming_ at the failed starlet. Harleen was mortified in the moment, and even more so at the thrill that fluttered in her stomach. “It's that one, boss,” Harleen nodded in the direction of the second door along.

 

He giggled. “It's showtime!” Snatching the bag from her grip. The Joker was oblivious to her need to cling to something. “Turn on those water works baby!”

 

This part of the plan had been of Harleen’s own invention. Throwing one last acting performance into the mix before saying goodbye to her dream, forever. Admittedly, at this point, it wasn't quite  _ all acting _ and she felt tears build at the back of her eyes, spilling over. The pressure was beyond anything she’d ever experienced, pounding in her skull -- Harleen wasn’t given a single moment to prepare, pushed forcibly towards the door by the Joker who then knocked, rapt, rapt, rapt in quick succession. “W-wait --” she managed, croaking, suddenly panicking. There was no going back.  _ There was no going back!  _ The Joker hurried down the hall to hide in the stairwell,  _ ha-ha-ha _ ing quietly to himself. Though she knew he wasn’t consciously blocking her exit (after all, she’d asked this of him) he was indeed, blocking her only escape. She could feel the tears streaming from her eyes, felt her chest rise and fall in rapid succession. This certainly wasn’t acting -- if it was, she’d win an Oscar! She heard footfalls from inside the apartment, felt her entire body tremble. Turned once to the Joker, her face full of terror, to be received and answered with a double-thumbs up and an eager, approving nod.  _ I can’t do this -- I can’t do this. I can’t. Wait -- _ Her heart leapt from her chest as the door shifted open, split light through the hall and unveiled the one, her only rival, in a silk nightdress, barefoot, looking more lovely than ever.

 

“Holy hell,  _ Harleen,  _ is that  _you_ ?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait on the chapter _!!_ I've been busy with a lotta stuff so I can't guarantee a regular schedule. BUT the story is still on-going _!!_ Thank you again so much for your patience and continued support. It means a hell of a lot and I certainly wouldn't be doing this still if it wasn't for all the wonderful comments, kudos and those who have contacted me. It warms my dead, cold heart. Love ya, all my mad love, L x


	25. THE SHOW MUST GO ON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a brutal industry.

Harleen collapsed into Peyton’s apartment, barely acting -- mostly crying, flustered, overwhelmed, she stumbled past Riley despite her shell-shocked expression and her hand outstretched to stay  _ stop _ . Harleen was panting, frantic, slammed the door, shutting out the Joker who was left lurking in the hallway. This wasn't acting anymore but the performance continued regardless. “You  _ have to _ help me,” she blurted, breathlessly, heels slipping on the hardwood flooring, weight up against the door with her fist wound tight around the handle. “ _ Please _ .” Her throat was hoarse and clogged in panic, throwing herself further into the living space, idle hands trembling and fumbling.

But despite Harleen’s surprise entrance and clear desperation, Riley’s shock dissipated as she ventured forth into the open plan living room. She was steadfast, calculating, taking in Harleen with an air of disappointment. Tight-lipped disapproval. Her head was held high, her nightgown creaseless, a vision of perfection and sophistication -- at least, compared to Harleen, whose makeup, clothes and hair were completely askew. A moment passed in silence. Only Harleen’s heavy breathing filled the space between them, which she stopped upon realising it, hiccupping awkwardly, the aftermath of near-on hysteria.  _ Award winning. _

“What’s happened to  _ you _ ?” was all Peyton offered despite both of them knowing the answer. The Joker. “You were acting crazy. You pointed a gun at me. Everyone thought you were  _ dead _ until the gala, I assumed you were in cahoots with  _ that clown _ .” Riley spoke so nonchalantly, so callously, Harleen’s anxiousness was turning to anger. “But even that's a tad too impressive for you.” Peyton’s eyes narrowed, arms crossed tight. “Are you being followed?”

The question was so to-the-point Harleen stammered for a moment, stunned by Riley’s direct and cool composure. “N--no, I’m not! I -- escaped! Please,  _ help me _ .” A tiny part of her battled over what she wanted, as always. There was her old life, a life like this -- or the very real offer to  _ really  _ be in cahoots with the clown. Too impressive, huh? _ I’ll show you. _

“Alright.” Riley said, if not a little softer. There flashed the smallest glimpse of concern. “You're safe here, at least.” Though she did little to hide the lack of enthusiasm in her tone.

Harleen didn’t doubt that she was safe. On any other occasion.  _ Everyone _ knew Riley was the daughter of a Gotham gangster --  _ cough _ \-- businessman. They’d just never succeeded in getting him behind bars, thanks to serious drug money and the best lawyers that it could buy. Peyton had been born into a prestigious, recognisable,  _ feared  _ family. A long line of powerful people pulling at the city’s strings. Had Harleen not just invited the Joker to their own private party for three, this place was possibly one of the safest in the city... Just not tonight, and not for Peyton Riley.

“Take a seat, I'll make a few calls,” Peyton told her nonchalantly, flicking her wrist to dismiss her clearly unwelcome guest.

_ No _ . “Wait!” Instead of taking a seat as coolly instructed, Harleen bounded forward, grabbing Peyton’s arm and tugging desperately. This would only work if Riley was alone. Without reinforcements of her father’s kind. Harleen could feel the panic rising to the surface -- only partly feigned as she hoped to keep Peyton from her landline. 

But Peyton's grey and piercing eyes were upon her, scrutinising and powerful. “ _ What _ ?”

“I’ve…” Shit, Harleen was always the better actress when it came to improvisation but Peyton’s steely composure had knocked the inspiration from her mind… “I’ve already called the police,” Harleen managed a lie, a terrible and unconvincing one, stammering as she delivered it. “I gave them your address -- I -- I had nowhere else to go, I'm  _ sorry _ .”

Perhaps the patheticness of Harleen's statement seemed to work as Riley pried herself free of her grasp. “ _ Christ _ , Harleen.” She tutted and Harleen felt her cheeks flush with frustration. “I can't be seen caught up in this shit of yours. This won't look good for me. My career is on the up, I don't want any part in your scandal. You had your chance.”

Harleen's blood bubbled in her veins.  _ Her scandal? _ “You should be thankful if anythin’!” Harleen scoffed loudly through the insult. “If all a  _ this _ hadn't happened, you wouldn't have the job at all!”

“Are you out of your mind, Harleen?” Peyton's voice was low and husky, shaking her head as she brushed away Harleen as though she were nothing. “You really think my entire career rested on one stupid show? What is wrong with  _ you _ ?” Peyton's patience appeared to be waning, pushing Harleen to create space between them.

“What is wrong with  _ me _ ?” Harleen couldn't believe it! All thoughts of regret for the moment were thrown out the window. “You jumped in my grave the moment you could, I saw it for myself, ya’ can't deny it!” The videotape, the news reports, the performance at the gala, all fueled Harleen’s jealous rampage. She'd seen for herself how quickly she'd been pulled off her pedestal for Peyton Riley to come along and build her own.

“Stop. Just stop it.” Peyton remained deathly calm despite Harleen's growing hysteria -- and Harleen felt herself go quiet at the clipped tone of her most-hated rival. Riley continued. “Are you really this  _ deluded _ ? Or is this simply sheer stupidity? Maybe it's a little of both?”

“Deluded?!” Harleen barked back, loudly, her voice cracking.

“Yes --  _ deluded _ , Harleen.” Peyton sighed, shook her head, regarded Harleen less with anger, and instead with...  _ pity _ ?! “Do you remember when we first met?” Riley asked, softly but not sweetly. “When I’d been hired to play as your understudy? From the moment you knew this, you ignored me. You made it very obvious that you hated me, tried to convince the other cast members to hate me too.” There was a sense of hurt in Peyton’s voice, but was kept controlled, confined as she carried on. “I was nothing if not friendly to you at first Harleen, but over time I gave up trying to see eye to eye. I was just another rung on your ladder to success you didn't care to think about. You constantly judged me, constantly hated me for even talking to the rest of the crew.” Her grey eyes were cloudy, her pupils like pin-pricks as she glared at Harleen, the words taking the wind from her lungs. “You  _ never _ spoke to me but wanted invites to my parties? You tried to spread lies but it was  _ you _ who was spreading your legs! Not to mention you thrust a gun in my face! You have the audacity to show up at my door after all this? The gossip is true, you really  _ are _ insane.”

Harleen felt a sickness writhe in her stomach, a grim and terrible confirmation, that suddenly she was glad to have bought the Joker to this door. It hadn't been like that --  _ it hadn't!  _ Peyton had daddy’s money, Peyton had an easy time of it, Peyton wanted to move in on her spotlight!  _ Right _ ?! “I  _ never _ \--” And all she could think of was the Joker squatting on her lap the night of her kidnapping, grinning ear to ear but face split by  _ rage _ . A jealous fury, Harleen having taken the city’s attention from the Clown Prince of crime… One in the same only, Harleen now stood in the Joker’s shoes, filled with an anger so complete and all-consuming she could finally, really understand why he'd sabotaged her first night on stage.

The doorbell rang. One long and tuneless sound of  _ ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-dong  _ the only noise that broke the static void between the two clashing women. Harleen was the first to turn, and effortlessly the lie left her as if she were flawlessly following script. “The police!” she gasped, “finally!” But Riley leapt at her, grabbing handfuls of her hair and yanking.

“You're  _ no angel _ Harleen! Your little game of victim never worked with me -- still doesn’t  _ now _ ...”

There was a rush. A struggle for the door between them. Harleen desperate to open it, Peyton fighting to keep it shut. Whether Peyton knew the real threat or not, Harleen didn’t know, but she scratched and clawed to keep Harleen from letting in whoever kept their finger pressed upon the doorbell.

_ Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-dong. _

_ “Ouch!” _

_ Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-dong. _

_ “Let go a me!” _

_ Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-dong. _

“Don’t you  _ dare, _ you crazy bitch!”

“I’m not crazy!” Harleen squealed, feeling Riley’s fingernails raking her scalp. “But I--I’ll show ya’ who is!” She managed to overcome Riley’s constant violent advances, and instead of retaliating with her words, forced the door handle downward, throwing them both back with the last bit of strength she had, screaming. The doorbell stopped it’s tinny sound instantly, to be replaced by a voice, and high, scratching laughter. Harleen felt Riley’s hold relent at the Joker’s giggling, eyes wide as she turned to her second intruder of the evening, jaw slacked in shock. Harleen could only grin from ear to ear, shoving her rival towards the heinous clown. “It’s  _ showtime _ !”

  
  
  


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Joker, half way through a stale pack of chips he’d forgot he'd packed into his toolbag, strode into the apartment with the proudest, smuggest smile on his face. Crunching loudly, dropping debris on the carpet as he entered, having already been announced loudly, finished his snack instead. He smiled wider at the expressions befallen of his audience. Harley’s rival with her mouth agape, stumbling backward in shock at Joker’s unexpected presence at her door, and Harley herself, with her smile so dark and so sinister, it surprised even him. His eyes lingered on her, none-the-wiser, as her own gaze bore into the head of Miss Peyton Riley, chest heaving, skin flushed and teeth clenched. He had never seen her quite so angry. It was hilarious now he wasn't the one on the receiving end of her fury, that which he himself had grown fairly acquainted with over the course of their time together. Joker tutted, an apathetic expression dragging downward at the corners of his grimace. “Naughty, _naughty_.”

Apparently the girls had already gone  _ at it _ prior to his arrival, both of them a tad bedraggled, and panting, parting ways with stumbling feet as the prince entered the apartment. Closing the door with a flick of his heel, the room was stagnant with uncertainty --  _ fear _ \-- his favourite way to freshen up any haughty pop-up complex. Peyton's lip trembled, but she did not falter. The fresh faced starlet did  _ not _ disappoint! She looked ready for round to, lowering her voice to a deadly, husky growl.

“Get  _ the fuck _ out of my  _ house  _ clown.”

Followed by what Joker had heard time and time before from the mouths of  _ many _ , which he proceeded to mocked in his signature fashion, her threat weakening as their voices chimed in unison. “ _ You'll regret this _ !”

He giggled girlishly. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Peyton wilted, but only just.

“How about you, Harls?” When he felt his smile couldn't stretch any wider, Harley replied.

“Not  _ one bit _ , boss.”

Whether wholly true or not didn't matter, his harlequin played her part perfectly, laughing loudly along with him, forced and flustered,  _ it just didn’t matter anymore _ .

But Peyton Riley was not yet deterred, scared of course -- that was to be expected -- but still defiant in face of her enemies. Joker had to admit (just never to Harley) he considered applauding Riley’s resilience. It was unexpected, but wholly welcome. And she went to strike him then, a smarting, swift  _ SMACK _ that caught Joker hard across the face. He gasped, grinning as she spat, spittle flecking his shirt and face. Wiping the froth from his eye, before he’d even opened his mouth to laugh, Harley had  _ lunged _ . Dragging Peyton over the back of the sofa, tumbling, with flailing pale arms, legs, upskirt -- clumps of matted blonde strewn, screeches, squeals,  _ swearing _ , the whole  _ shebang _ ! An absent long fingered hand lingered at his own cheek, pondering the sudden turn of events and his stinging face. My, my, my, he hadn’t bought enough snacks for  _ this _ !

Harley was a  _ terrible _ fighter, Joker realised, thoroughly entertained.  _ Embarrassingly bad _ , as they rolled together across the fur rug in front of the fireplace, tearing feathers from pillows, and hair from their scalps. Teeth, nails, screeching madness making a mess of mascara, Joker both cringed and clapped the simple nature of the savagery. “Ladies -- ladies -- please, be civil!” he called shrilly over their scrap, but both seemed to have forgotten his presence in the room. Harley was  _ livid _ , her fists tight balls that rained down across Peyton’s chest and face -- not always on target, but always with force.

“Show -- some -- respect -- ya’ --  _ hussy, _ ” she heaved with every blow.

All the while Joker revelled in her vicious loyalty. “Bravo,  _ bravo _ . You tell ‘em kid.” How the tables had turned -- and did he love it!

With both of them now breathless, there was a window of opportunity for Peyton to stand. Sporting a bloody lip and a few fresh bruises, she glared at her attackers. “You fuckin’ bitch,” she hissed, “you  _ stupid _ fuckin’ bitch.” Shaking her head, ragged and  _ disgusted _ , she reached into the fireplace --

He knew what she was going for -- he rushed for his bag of tools -- he saw the black metal in the palm of her hand -- he dived for his own --

_ SMASH! _

Peyton went head first downward into her glass coffee table, her gun  _ CRACKED _ as she fell and fired a bullet that shattered the crystals on her chandelier . Harley had pulled Peyton’s leg from beneath her, screaming “BREAK A LEG!” as loudly and as crassly as she could. (Good one, Harls!) The gun clattered off across the wooden floor and into Harley’s range. Joker had withdrawn a ball hammer, eyes wide and ready to crack a skull, shocked into immediate action by the reveal of Riley’s gun. That Harley -- still splayed on the floor -- held, pointed shakingly at Peyton, wounded by broken glass and spluttering in pain. And the part he relished most of all came quickly, the defiance in Peyton’s face turned to absolute defeat -- the admittance, the realisation of death, staring down the barrel of her own gun, to look back and see him there, looking down at her, a hammer firmly in his grasp.

“You -- fuckin’ --  _ bitch _ ,” she said, still, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Joker was waiting for the gunshot, the sound of the second bullet, waiting to feel the spray of Riley’s blood and brain splatter up his pants and soak his skin. But it didn’t come. It didn’t come after some time. And Harley was still lying there, gun in hand, shaking madly, breathing harshly and sobbing silently to herself.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked and saw Harley’s lip wavering.

“I -- can’t --”

Oh  _ no _ . “Just squeeze the trigger,” he sighed impatiently, twirling the weapon of his own. This was  _ her _ kill, but a man could only wait so long. “C’mon kid, remember, like we practiced?!” He tried being gentle, encouraging, but that seemed to create more hysteria, he sucked in deep.  _ Try not to lose your shit.  _ “C’mon sweetness, you hate her remember?”

“Mister J -- I  _ can’t _ -” She could barely contain herself. “I -- can’t do this  --”

He growled in frustration, and turned away from the scene as not to get too angry and spoil the moment. After all, she’d done  _ so well _ so far. Joker turned to his bag of trusty tools, thought back to the time he’d had her up in his office, the poster of Peyton on his wall. She didn’t look quite as  _ polished _ anymore. He pulled a knife from the bag, plain, simple, nothing fancy, his own preferred method -- tossing it at Harley in hopes it would help. “Like we practiced,” he nodded, “like the poster, remember?”

Harley nodded nervously, fumbling with the knife and pulling herself upward. She shuffled, step by step over to Peyton, her body folded ragged inside the bent frame and broken glass of what was the coffee table. “Like the poster,” Harley repeated, in a tiny, tiny voice.

Joker grinned, “yes, that’s it, like the poster. Pick a soft spot and just  _ go ham _ \- ha-  _ ha! _ ”

That was apparently too much. Harley erupted into a howl like a half-dead animal, clutching the handle of the knife at her chest.

“Christ.” Joker’s lip curled, accepting now that he’d just have to crack Riley’s skull like a nut and be done. “You don’t have to make such a fuss --”

“YOU FUCKIN’ --” Peyton was up, like a zombie rising up from the grave, up and off the table, bloody,  _ raging _ . Adrenaline gave her that second wind and she went for Harley like a wild woman possessed, grabbing at her throat and squeezing, Harley’s wet eyes popping.

Joker hopped over the sofa. He wasn’t  _ rushing _ . There was a little disappointment in him, a little sadness. A dark and writhing ugliness that asked him if it was worth intervening at all in this? There had been times Harley had really pulled through for him. He’d hoped -- the smallest, tiniest  _ hope _ \-- that she’d have pulled through for him this time too. He’d tried to ignore it, that odd, confusing connection, that  _ similarity _ . But it seemed, as he’d suspected,  _ expected _ , it had only been skin deep. He ignored Harley’s rasping plea for help. He’d intervene when he was ready -- and he guessed she’d have to wait. As Peyton squeezed the life out of her, he realised, no wonder it was Riley who was always ahead of Miss Harleen Quinzel.

 

**_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHKKKKKKKKKKK_ **

 

**_KKKHHHHUUUGGH --_ **

 

**_KKKHHHHH._ **

 

Peyton was reeling back. Her face a mask of wet, dark blood. Her hand over one eye, as wet and claret as her head and neck. She stumbled  _ SCREAMING _ at the very top of her lungs, a high, strangled scream, sharp and piercing. Pain. So much pain. Her mouth wide, jaw rigid, eyes tight shut and blinded by her own blood. Joker took it all in, surprised,  _ shocked _ , saw the wide, gaping, gushing wound that slashed from her hairline down to her upper lip, having completely ruined one eye, bleeding, pouring, fumbling and still  _ SCREAMING _ . He looked up to see a shaken Harley, knife still in hand and running thick  _ red _ . She was panting, she was crying -- and, he felt something tighten like a knot in his chest, she was  _ smiling _ . It was shock, Joker knew that. Harley trembled, her lips white. She stared unblinkingly that the flailing, screaming, bleeding mess that was her rival.

“Give it a rest!” Joker snapped, thwacking Riley with the hammer and knocking her into oblivion.

Stepping carefully over the shards of glass, the tufts of hair, the fallen snacks, Joker made his way cautiously to Harley, who stood frozen and grey still staring at Riley and where she lay. Harley sobbed, sucking in breath over and over and over and over.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Joker smiled at her, tilting his head and dropping his hammer, hands splayed in playful surrender. Pleased, so incredibly pleased with her. “You did it!” He grinned from ear to ear, teasing the knife out of her vice-like knuckles and letting it fall to the floor with a clatter.

As soon as her hands were free of the blade, she grabbed him, she held him so tightly, squeezed her arms around his body and shuddered into him, crying loudly and wetly into his shirt. “Mister J --” she cried, kneading at the back of his blazer, her whole body vibrated with grief. “It’s over,” her whole body vibrated with grief, “it’s all over -- it’s over -- it’s over.”

  
He pulled back matted curtain of blonde and brittle hair from her face, pressing his lips softly against her forehead, left a red imprint of his kiss upon her skin. “Harls,” he smiled, almost sing-song, his heart soaring.  _ It’s only just begun. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait for this chapter. I've had a bit of a block with writing for some time. I still have a lot planned for this story, it's just getting the right words down! I hope this chapter reads okay since most of it was written at varying times - but it's done finally, I just hope it's okay !! Thank you though to all those who are still interested, still support me and are still reading. Many thanks for all your patience and passion! For those of you on tumblr, you can often catch me talking about the Joker at madluv.tumblr.com, otherwise, I look forward to hearing from you here. Again, many thanks, much mad love, L x


	26. BEHIND CLOSED CURTAINS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behind closed curtains. ( This is a nsfw chapter. )

“The lungs on her -- _jesus_!”

The Joker had pressed chapped lips against her clammy forehead, whispered something about the police turning up at any moment, his voice sounded fuzzy and far away. Harleen could barely focus against the pressure pounding in her head, a high pitched squealing in her ears. The echo of Riley's scream, a long, strangled sound that made her blood run cold and sweat gather at her brow. Her cheeks were raw from how much she'd been crying, time had seemed to stop the moment she'd slashed at Peyton's face. She remembered the hate in her grey eyes as she pressed her thumbs into Harleen's windpipe, and Harleen had just known. It was her or Riley. As it had always been, always would be. It had been her or Riley. She'd had no choice but to cut into Riley's face, as quick and clean as if it were butter, it had slipped so easily over soft skin that Harleen hadn't even realised she'd caught her until the blood ran and ran and ran, all over. Until Riley's face was a sodden mask of blood, her hands releasing to grasp at her own pained and ruined face. Harleen's breath hitched in her throat, clutching ever tighter into the Joker's chest, crying out “it's all -- it's all _over_.”

_What the hell have you done?_

“There, there,” the Joker cooed softly, and the feel of his hand stroking soothingly against the back of her neck, down her back, drew a shudder, then a sigh of exhausted relief from  deep in her bones. “There, _there_.” His voice was surprisingly soft, still fuzzy -- as though he spoke to her from beyond the static of a radio. “That was your best act yet!”

He inched away and Harleen gripped him ever tighter, pinching as much of his jacket as she could between her trembling fingertips. She couldn't face the absence of him against her, eyes squeezed shut to avoid having to see the nightmarish scene she'd played her very own part in. “Don't --” was all she could muster, and felt the palm of his hand flatten her hair as she buried her face deeper into the Joker’s chest.

“We need to leave,” the Joker reminded her, this time more firmly, pulling himself from her desperate grasp, Harleen spluttered -- lost without his warmth against her cold and trembling body. Her eyes opened if only to see him there, to remind her that she wasn't left alone in this madness. Harleen met with his eyes staring _into_ her. Air caught in her lungs to comprehend his expression. She couldn't believe the _smile_ on his face. It was the happiest she'd ever seen him. As much as it truly and absolutely _horrified_ her to see, she was enveloped completely and utterly, lost in his joy, lost in the vicious gleam in his eyes. The most terrifying thing -- but the most satisfied she'd ever felt in her life -- was seeing the Joker’s _approval_.

_Look what you've done!_

Her gut writhed, to witness the sycophant simper on his sharp and twisted features. She was so, so frightened of how he looked at her then, cementing her to the spot. It stopped her heart, stopped the ragged breath in her lungs, silenced the screaming in her head and wiped her mind of all other fear, all other consequence and conscience. Harleen was captivated entirely, _encompassed_ entirely by the sick pleasure on his face.

“Good work.”

The sickest thing of all, she felt a twinge of pride at his words, felt the smallest tug at the corners of her mouth. A small puffing of her chest, proud. A lone bone-white finger wiped dirty tears from her face and before she could even speak, they were together again. Her lips crushed against his so roughly that their teeth clipped and she winced through the pain. Clumsily, they kissed. She wasn't steady enough, he wasn't practiced enough. They made a mess of his make-up enough to match her own ravaged face. She craved his warmth, she craved his evil eyes on her, the way he looked at her with a hunger beyond how any other had looked at her. The way he looked, as though no other person existed, as though he'd glared into her soul and found the darkest, most devilish place and decided to tease it out of her. That he didn't care it was there, that he _revelled_ in it.

Harleen hurried for the buttons of his shirt and this time he didn't recoil, instead he encouraged it, pulling away to help her hurry along. She nibbled at his collarbone, kissing where she could reach of his neck and his chest, she was desperate for the comfort of the heat of his body, the weight of him on her, the feel of him fucking her -- so she didn't have to think of what had come before. Everything that frightened her paled in comparison to him -- so _with_ him, and wanting to _fuck_ him, there was nothing else left to be afraid of. And even if he killed her afterward, she was willing and wanting to go.

Sirens howled somewhere off in the distance, and though Harleen felt at first it might be imaginary, it pulled the Joker from his stupor, his head snapped to the open window and he shoved away her advancing affections. “Not _now_ ,” he told her, but Harleen felt a sense of pleasure to note the look of disappointment at being disturbed. “Not _here_ ,” he pressed one long kiss against her mouth.

Harleen nodded absently, her mind still bleated snapshots of the knife, the fight, _the blood_ but the pressure of his lips on hers made all of it that little bit less terrible to think on. “Okay Mister J.”

They both stepped precariously over the limp arm that stuck out across the doorway blocking their exit, the Joker assisted Harleen first, before kicking Riley's limb roughly to the side. He looked apathetic at the mess they were leaving behind, before smiling widely at Harleen -- having caught her staring at him. She'd rather that than review the room they were walking out of. She dared not look at Peyton again, and never once over her shoulder as the Joker whisked her from the building.

He didn't kiss her outside, he didn't kiss her in their getaway car. He didn't even kiss her once they'd reached the safe perimeter of his own abandoned apartment block hq. He didn't kiss her as they got out at the garage, a light drizzle swept in on a wind to cool their flustered faces. This wasn't anything like the books she'd read or the movies she'd seen. He didn't even half look at her as they made their way silently up in the elevator to his own private penthouse. She could see his adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed hard and avoided her gaze but Harleen didn't have the energy to challenge him.

The doors to the elevator opened up, directly into his own apartment and Harleen shuffled, squinting through the first light that bled through the windows, savouring the silence of the earliest hours of morning. The Joker skulked into his home, waltzed up to the glass and stared out at the city, not once looking back at Harleen. She felt as though the floor had vanished from beneath her feet, that her heart had fallen out of her rib cage and into her stomach. He was a hard man to love, an even harder man to keep track of.

When he turned back to say something, she expected a bark of an order, or a snap of something aggressive, Harleen saw an uncertainty in his expression, as though for the first time he was unsure of himself. The Joker adjusted his collar and the look quickly dissipated. She just wanted to hold him, to be held -- she longed for his closeness he wasn't willing to give. Despite the numbness in her legs, the pins and needles in her arms, she stepped forward, closed the distance and embraced him. It took her by surprise to hear the small sigh of relief escape him and though he held her awkwardly, he held her tightly.

The Joker was definitely awkward, weirdly fumbling, still Harleen felt her tenseness melting the moment he kissed the softest, bruised spots of her neck. The finger marks where Riley had tried to crush the life from her were peppered with the briefest and lightest of kisses. And she moaned quietly, one hand wound up in his hair, the other once again at the bottom half of his shirt buttons. He ignored her need to undress him this time, his hands at her cheeks as he came up to kiss her mouth. Like the kisses before, he never kissed too deeply, instead hovered at her lips with light flickers of pecking. Harleen didn't push for more, though she wanted it hungrily.

Occasionally she'd open her eyes and catch his, unblinking. His gaze was so piercing -- so steady and _slightly unnerving_ \-- she shut hers, just to savour the softness of him instead. At some point, after what was mostly kissing and the simplest of petting, they wound their way to his bed, Harleen at the lead. She pressed him with a single finger to sit, where he perched at the end, swallowing hard, watching her with confliction, an eagerness but also, suspiciousness. There was something disarming and _endearing_ about his uncertainty in this, that Harleen's heart hammered all the harder for. 

Their mouths met again as she came to squat upon his lap, her knees pressed into the mattress, both of her hands tangled into the mess of his tousled green hair. He made a small sound that caught in his throat, a groan that had her _wanting_ _him_ more than ever, that she grinded her hips and felt the hard cold buckle of his belt through her underwear. Harleen was not detered, and could feel the press of his erection, rubbing herself against it to urge him and encourage him. Harleen could feel his whole body tense, as he moaned again quietly into her neck. The Joker had a vice like grip on her clothes, but didn't once attempt to remove them.

Eventually, after several minutes of grinding against him clothed, Harleen pulled her nightdress off herself, stripping herself hurriedly, over her head with a desperate frustration, throwing her dress to the side impatiently. _C'mon!_  She flicked her hair, offered her modest breasts, sat bare, save her unattractive panties, all the while the Joker was still clothed (open shirt aside) his socks and shoes included -- _clueless_. “Come on..." Harleen mewed, taking the initiative to start with his belt buckle. Clearly he needed _some assistance_.

The Joker didn't even move, instead he just stared at her, as though both dumbfounded, fascinated and flabbergasted at what Harleen was about to do. “ _Wow_ ,” she scoffed, having undone his pants enough to reveal his (albeit risen) polka dot patterned boxer shorts. Harleen couldn't help but laugh a little at the fact his blank expression did not change despite the circumstance. Then, he smiled. Was that a flash of embarrassment that dashed across his face? 

" _Haa_."

They both giggled, awkwardly, quietly. Harleen felt her heart swell, her sore cheeks flushing scarlet. Possibly the weirdest, awkwardly sexy moments of her life, for once Harleen felt a sense of _belonging_ that wasn't belonging _to._ That there was some natural ease she had never experienced. The Joker drew her in and kissed her, a hand at her jaw and guiding her gently, another hand had found its way to her bare breast, which he kneaded the once, as cautious as his kisses that she craved him even more.

Harleen gave a squeak of surprise as the Joker then pulled her to the side, and they rolled until he was on top of her, pressed between her legs and looking down at her with a silent intenseness. Her insides squirmed at his expression, no longer smiling he looked entirely ready to kiss her or kill her and she didn't care which! Harleen tilted her hips up to meet him, hooked her toes into the waistband of his boxers and inched them from his hips down to his thighs. She went to grab for his cock automatically, but he flicked her wrist aside and snapped, “ _don't_.”

Just as she'd come to know him in their day to day, she was quickly beginning to learn the Joker was just as excruciatingly frustrating in the bedroom as he was outside of it. He didn't take the prompts, the hints or the demands even. Outwardly and obviously ignoring her every desire until it was something _he_ intended to do. At this point she was near on _desperate_ for him. He knew this. And _worse_ , he knew that _she_ knew this.

The Joker slinked away from her and Harleen groaned in anger at him recoiling, her tight balled fists bouncing on the mattress. It was hard to tell if he recoiled out of uncertainty or just because he felt like being an awful, evil bastard. By now, Harleen understood both were entirely possible! “Will ya' make up ya’ mind --” she didn't finish her sentence, didn't care to finish it. His hot mouth was at her pussy and gently kissing through the material of her panties, his every breath felt like a warm wave that rippled from between her legs and up over her body. She was both equally as tense as she was melting into the bedsheets, her thighs were tight, her hands were clasping the covers, but his tongue was easing the very last of her concerns from of her mind. Entirely. She was floating. _Fuck_. Waves and waves of warming pleasure.

The fact he'd chosen to do this through her panties was, as she'd come to know, the Joker all over. She wasn't going to beg for him to take them off, nor was she going to take them off herself -- but her mind still silently screamed for him to JUST TAKE ‘EM OFF so she could feel it even more deliciously. Her fingers played with his hair, subconsciously (no, consciously) pressing his face into her pussy. What concern for his broken nose she'd had before, she had very little concern for now. He moaned a little, too quiet for her to hear against the softness of her sex, but she felt it ripple through her body, her thighs clamped around his head in response wanting the pleasure to mount to a climax. Despite the gentle, deliberate, steady action of his contact, Harleen could feel herself building, slowly -- _so_ slowly -- agonizingly to orgasm.

 _Finally_ , he decided to move her panties aside, Harleen cried out a little in excitement. But the Joker pulled his head away and stuck a single finger straight into her. Harleen gasped. It felt good, she was already wet -- she'd been wet from the moment they'd made out in Riley's blood stained apartment. But still -- she missed the soft, wetness of his tongue, taken by surprise by his sudden roughness.

◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊❤️◊

He _wanted_ to fuck her and he _knew_ it was what she wanted too. What with her legs so blatantly askew, having wriggled against his mouth, mewling and moaning, so much so that he could taste Harley through the lining of her underwear. Could feel the intenseness of her arousal, her entire body was welcoming him, beckoning him, laid out splayed and inviting. Vulnerable. Harley's body writhing, Joker could feel the heat radiating off her skin, prickling with sweat himself, uncomfortably hard, uncomfortably _ill equipped_  for this. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had anyone in his bed, and more to the point, didn't really ever care to share it. Now though, Joker was tense, wound like a spring. He _wanted_ to fuck her, eagerly and hungrily to ease the momentous ache of _needing_ to fuck her. But he felt like a violently shaken champagne bottle. He knew the moment he sank his cock in her, he'd _blow_.

 _Christ_.

He drew an arm across his brow, cursing himself quietly for allowing anything to get this far. Maybe he had rather roughly pushed his finger inside... Harley’s hips seemed to halter and she gasped at the change of foreplay. She was annoying him admittedly, with all of her little sounds, all of her wordless encouraging, her body being so wantonly obviously desperate to fuck him. Joker couldn't remember a time someone had been so receptive and genuine. Vulnerable and open, Harleen looked up at him as though he'd scolded her, a look that quickly vanishes the moment Joker pressed his thumb against her clit, and in the smallest circles, teased her steadily until she went back to her sighing and soft little moaning. 

She felt slick, hot, and with one finger inside, Joker barely moved, his thumb on her clit adding the slightest of pressure. Clearly impatient Harley began to grind against him, riding up against his hand, quietly pleading for him to up the pace. He wouldn't. And Harley seemed angry when her first orgasm hit her. It had taken a while because Joker refused to match her speed when she wanted things to go faster, when she wanted things to build quickly and rapidly. He knew she had enjoyed it, she'd just had to wait for it, and he knew she'd felt some pain with it -- for how long she'd ached for it. He didn't think it required any sympathy however, he was aching _constantly_ to be inside of her, he just kept some control, some _restraint_. The very opposite of the woman on his bed, legs apart, helping to guide his hand now, panting for him.

Joker tried to ignore his own arousal, the ache in his groin that was beginning to hurt. Pushing another finger inside he moved his thumb away to come back with his tongue. This, she _loved_ . He kissed her pussy gently, something that seemed to draw from her a lot of moaning and a whole lot of wiggling. He was just as careful with his fingers in her as he was his mouth _on_ her, catching her clit in his teeth for her to hiss suddenly and shudder through another orgasm. He felt as though she was pulling his hair from his scalp and, wincing, Joker had to pull away despite her protests not to stop. 

Just as Harley was telling him over and over “please don't stop -- don't stop -- please don't stop,” she was still tugging at his hair, hoping  to guide his face up to kiss him. Until they were eye level, him over her, her lips brushing at his chest before biting his bottom lip to taste her own sweetness. Harley's legs wrapped themselves around his narrow hips and he paused to slip off his shoes, shuffled out if his pants, she smiled at the CLUNK of his belt and pants falling off the end of the bed. Joker couldn't wait any longer, he didn't want to stall any longer, holding her panties aside with his thumb he grabbed at his cock and guided himself inside of her in one rushed, rough motion.

Harley was bucking from the moment he entered her -- and though the pleasure washed over him and made him _stupid_ almost instantly -- he managed to tell her “go easy -- go _easy_.” And she did.

They fucked quietly. There were no theatrics between them, they said nothing to each other other than a passing direction of " _slower_ " or "like that." He was overwhelmed by the lightness in his body, the fact that, for a brief time, things seemed a little calmer in his mind, less loud, less obnixious and complicated. All he could process was the building pleasure, the softness of her hot and dewy skin. Harley growing faster in her thrusts, and moaning with all the more fervour. Her fingers raked at his back and drew him ever closer and ever deeper that he could barely concentrate on anything other than the sounds of her breathless "yes" over and over, the snapshots of her lips, her eyelashes, her hair. He could barely contain himself, was trying desperately to do so. "Take it _easy."_

They didn't do much of anything for a moment. Joker was trying to collect himself steadily, all the while Harley stared up at him patiently, her cheeks flushed, her chest flushed, he could feel her warmth, how every slightest movement dulled his mind with pleasure. Every tiny jolt of her hips had him wanting more, had him feel like he was teetering on the edge of coming. _''Hang on,_ ” he reminded, but Harley decided to ignore it -- rocking from beneath him, clearly having waited long enough for the moment he was inside of her. “Just give me a--” but it was a little too late, nestling his head into her shoulder and clenching his teeth, he made no noise as he came.  

Harley said nothing in the aftermath. She smiled, looked content despite the mascara tracks on her cheeks, her jaw smeared all over with red. Her hair one solid mat of split-end blonde. She threw herself back onto his sheets and laughed lightly. It was mere minutes and she was fast asleep upon his bed, exhausted and splayed out like a rag doll, her limbs tangled and intertwined with his own, snoring lightly. Joker took great care in prying himself from her but she had been so tired from the events of the day Harley didn't even stir. Joker planned to leave her side, leave the bedroom, leave the floor they shared but he only got so far. Gathering together his clothes, he barely cleaned down, ambled aimlessly to his desk, collapsed into his seat and bone tired for once, had little time to dwell on what had just happened. Joker was still neutralised by his orgasm  -- oddly calm -- his head sank into his gangly arms and he slept, even through the high and harrowed cries of foxes somewhere down in the dirty streets below.


End file.
